by Alex Ander
Director Jameson strode down the hallway of the hospital. Two junior agents were one-step behind him, one on either side. His long strides carried him forward at a pace that those walking with him found difficult to maintain. The other agents alternated between walking and jogging to keep up with him. Jameson turned left at the end of the hallway. He made an immediate right turn before entering the hospital room where one of his finest agents was lying in a bed, having been involved in a gunfight two hours ago.
“Cruz, I’m glad to see you’re awake.” Jameson gestured for the two agents to wait outside and closed the door. “How are you feeling?”
“My head feels like Tank has been sitting on it for an hour, but other than that, I feel good to go, sir.”
Tank was the nickname for one of the agents who had accompanied the Director. Tank had received his nickname because of his size. The man was six-feet, six-inches tall and tipped the scales at 250 pounds of solid muscle. He had only been with the FBI for a little over a year, but had made a name for himself as someone you definitely wanted on your side if you ever got into a fight.
“Good to hear,” said Jameson, through a thin smile on his lips. He came closer to the bed.
“When can I get out of here…I’ve got a lot of work to do?”
“Soon, but first I’d like to talk to you about what happened out there. What do you remember?” He shook his head and held up his hand. “First, let me say you did one hell of a job patching up Harper. That field dressing saved his life. He’s in surgery now, but the doctors say he’s going to make it. If you hadn’t done that before dialing 9-1-1, the doctors said he would have bled out in a matter of minutes. Nice work.”
Cruz was silent. Her mind was searching for the details of the incident. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I don’t recall applying a field dressing to anyone, let alone calling 9-1-1. The last thing I remember before waking up here is seeing a naked man running toward the SUV.”
“So, if you didn’t do it, then who did? No average person could have done that, unless he or she had military or medical training.” After a few moments of silence, he continued. “Anyway, what do you remember?”
Holding a cup of water in her hand and taking small sips, Cruz filled in the director on the events leading up to the shootout. She grabbed a pitcher and filled her empty cup.
“So, there were four men inside the Tahoe with Hardy?”
Cruz nodded.
“There were only two bodies at the scene. What happened to the other three men?” Jameson let the question hang in the air, while he made a call from his cell phone.
“This is Director Jameson. I need you to find out if there are any security cameras near Franklin and Fourth and get me any footage from this morning between seven and nine...Thank you.” He put the phone in his pocket. “Get some rest, Cruz and I’ll see what I can do to get you released.” He reeled around and was out the door before she could reply.
Cruz picked up her mobile from the tray table and scrolled down her list of contacts. When she had found the name she was looking for, she pressed the ‘dial’ button. After a few rings, a good friend of hers at the FBI answered.
“Hey, Cruz, it’s good to hear from you. Are you out of the hospital already?” Martin O’Neal was an FBI computer specialist in his mid-twenties. He and Cruz had gotten to know each other throughout the years. His help was crucial to Cruz getting the evidence she needed in the case against Congresswoman Hayes.
“No, I’m still here, Marty. Can you do me a favor? I need all the information you can get on one Aaron L. Hardy.”
“Would that be the same Aaron L. Hardy who survived the tavern blast last night?”
“Yeah,” said Cruz, her mind re-playing the events since the explosion.
“Am I looking for anything in particular?”
“I’m not sure. My gut tells me he’s ex-military, possibly Special Forces. You can start there.”
“Will do, Cruz.” O’Neal changed the subject. “On that other matter you wanted me to investigate…”
Cruz remembered she had given O’Neal the file folder from Jack Darling.
“I found something. I did some digging and it turns out that seven of those eight names you gave me either have turned up dead or have disappeared completely in the last year. As you know, those were all high-profile names—known drug lords, heads of state, even an ambassador.”
“Did you find any details on their deaths?”
“In one case, there was a witness who stated he saw several men, dressed in black military clothing in the area at about the same time the drug lord was gunned down. In another case, a hotel cleaning lady was asked to use her key card to open a room by several men—”
“Let me guess…all dressed in black military clothing.”
“That’s right. Interesting, isn’t it? Anyway, that’s all I have so far, but I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”
“Thanks, Marty. Let me know as soon as you have something on Hardy, too.” She disconnected the call and set her phone on the tray table. She stared at the ceiling. Who were those men in the SUV and why did they want Hardy? Who called 9-1-1 with my phone? Who saved Harper’s life? Cruz doubted it would have been any of the DHS imposters. Perhaps it was a passing civilian. Or…She let her mind contemplate another option. The door opened and a nurse entered.
“Hi, dearie,” said the smiling nurse. “I have your discharge papers for you to sign.”
Chapter 13: We Need to Talk
9:47 a.m.
Colonel Ludlum’s voice gave away the shock he was feeling. “Hardy, thank God you’re alive. When I heard about the explosion, I thought for sure everyone was dead. How did you survive?”
“I got a phone call.” Hardy switched the phone to his left ear before picking up a remote control and shutting off the television.
“What do you mean?”
Hardy waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. We need to talk, but I don’t want to do it over the phone. When can we meet?”
“I’m in meetings for most of the afternoon.” Ludlum checked the time on his wristwatch. “I can leave early and meet you at my house around four.”
“That’ll work. I’ll see you there.” Hardy slowly lowered the receiver onto the handset’s hook, his mind making a checklist of the things he was going to need. He took a step toward the dining room table and shoved his hand into his front pocket.
Chapter 14: Ranger
Hardy took one of the rolls of cash from his pocket, peeled back five one hundred-dollar bills and left them on the dining room table. He scooped up the tablet and charging cable and went to the garage. Slipping the tablet inside the duffle bag in the back of the SUV, he left the garage through a side door.
Walking down Franklin Street with the duffle bag over his shoulder, Hardy scanned the houses on either side of the street, searching for signs the homeowner was not home. He had been trained to see tiny details ordinary people never noticed. The skill had served him well, saving his life and the lives of his men on numerous occasions.
A block ahead, he spotted a modest house with four or five rolled up newspapers on the front porch. The lawn, higher in length than the neighbors, was beginning to dry out in the July heat, despite the presence of a water sprinkler in the middle of the brown lawn. Strolling up the driveway, he went to the front door, rang the doorbell and picked up the newspapers, waiting to see if anyone answered the door. Turning around he ambled over to the water faucet and twisted the knob—the hiss of water and air mixed, and the sprinkler rotated back and forth. Hardy moved to the back of the residence, carefully stacking the newspapers. If people saw him, they would think he was there to pick up the newspapers and take care of the house, while the owners were away.
Standing by the back door, Hardy checked the nearby houses to see if anyone was watching before breaking the glass on the door with his elbow. Snaking his arm around the jagged glass attached to the frame, he unlocked and o
pened the door before stepping inside the garage; an older model Ford Ranger was parked inside, facing the street. Dark blue with an extended cab and a flat fiberglass topper covering the bed, the truck would be perfect. Hardy twisted the handle of the topper before lifting it and throwing his duffle bag inside. When the topper was secured, he went to the door leading to the living space of the house. Sneaking inside, he saw he was in the kitchen. Behind the door, a coat rack on the wall held two light jackets. Next to them was a set of keys. Swiping the key ring, he went to the Ranger—they were a match.
Inside the Ranger, Hardy pressed the button on the garage door opener, clipped to the visor. The large chain attached to the overhead door strained, lifting the overhead garage door. He started the engine and eased the truck out of the garage and into traffic.
On his way to Ludlum’s house, Hardy made a couple of stops to pick up supplies and fill the gas tank on the Ranger. Driving away from the gas station, he checked the digital clock—11:21. He wanted to get to Ludlum’s house early and conduct reconnaissance of the surrounding area.
…………………………
The forty-minute drive to Kent Island had been smooth. Hardy was able to avoid the heavy lunch-hour traffic. He had used the time to review the events leading up to this moment. He had initially thought terrorists were responsible for the explosion at the tavern; however, since the failed kidnapping attempt at the hospital, he was certain that was not the case. No, the two were definitely related. The big question was ‘how?’
Hardy’s thoughts turned to Special Agent Cruz. He checked the side-view mirror, pushed down on the turn-signal lever and passed a slow-moving vehicle. He smiled, remembering what Kevin Hernandez had said to him on the phone, ‘Are you thinking of dating her and wanted to run a background check on her first?’ Hardy had been so focused on obtaining as much information on her as he could, he did not realize he had developed feelings for her.
Hardy’s job for the past three years had made it nearly impossible to have any kind of serious relationship with a woman. He never knew when he was going to leave for a mission or how long he was going to be gone. Women were not waiting in line for a man with those qualities. Cruz may have been different, however. One did not advance to her professional level in such a short time by spending time with family. She may have been someone who would understand him and his unconventional working hours. With his left elbow on the door, he rested his head on his fist and let a breath of air slip past his pursed lips. Had the circumstances been different, he would have asked Cruz out on a date. The scenery on either side of the Ranger changed from water to tall trees and green grass. Hardy’s thoughts returned to the mission.
Colonel Ludlum lived in a one-story home at the end of Chesapeake Drive on Kent Island. On the other side of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, Hardy turned right onto Romancoke Road and drove past Chesapeake Drive, parking the Ranger on Camp Wright Lane, a secluded road surrounded by trees, located behind Ludlum’s house. Not knowing if he could trust his boss, Hardy wanted to park out of view from the man’s house.
With the Ranger parked in the woods, Hardy double-checked the status of his Sig Sauer, grabbed a pair of binoculars and a set of lock picks from the duffle bag in the truck bed, and disappeared into the forest.
Chapter 15: Nice Work, Marty
“It’s close to noon. Call me as soon as you get this.” Special Agent Cruz had left three messages for Jack Darling. Each call went straight to voicemail. With O’Neal’s help, she was able to verify the information Darling had given her, and she wanted to know what progress the reporter had made on his end. Every detail she had led back to The Tucker Group. She had placed calls to the organization, but no one of importance had returned her calls, only secretaries, who gave her scripted responses. The Tucker Group was somehow involved. She could sense it, but could not prove it.
During her career with the FBI, Cruz had developed a keen sense for detecting when people were not being honest with her. This talent had been her greatest asset when she investigated those who were suspected of criminal wrongdoing. She dissected a person’s words and examined them against the person’s body language, tone of voice and facial expressions. She knew if she was getting the truth or that person’s version of the truth. She was good at this part of her tradecraft, sometimes too good.
She had often considered her penchant for detecting lies had been part of the reason for her failure with men. She had never caught any of them cheating or lying to her, but once that familiar feeling of distrust swept over her, she could not recover. Cruz sat behind her desk and stared out the window. Large and puffy clouds sporadically intercepted the sun’s rays. Maybe they didn’t leave because I intimidated them. Maybe I pushed them away.
Thoughts of Hardy forced their way through her lamentations over past relationships. The first time she had seen him in the hospital, he had seemed different from most of the men she had known. Even in his then current and somewhat vulnerable condition, he had seemed…dangerous. She had worked with many men during her time in the military and law enforcement, but none of them had conveyed that quality to her. What seemed peculiar, however, was not the aura of danger that emanated from Hardy. No, it was the way he made her feel, a feeling of trust—a sense of safety. Cruz recalled the incident on Franklin and Fourth Street. Her face flushed and she smiled when her mind’s eye saw the butt of the naked man—it was firm and cute. It had to belong to Hardy. She remembered seeing him in the back seat of the SUV, wearing a hospital gown. He must have used the gown to dress Harper’s wound. Lost in thought, she flinched when someone knocked on her office door. The door opened a crack and Martin O’Neal’s head appeared.
“You got a minute, Cruz?”
“Come on in, Marty.” She pinched the front of her blouse between her thumb and forefinger and fanned her chest. Her cheeks were warm and she felt as if she had been caught looking at dirty pictures. Standing, she met O’Neal at the small conference table, located to the side of her desk, halfway to the office door. “What’s up?”
O’Neal was wearing a blue suit, white shirt and blue tie. Gold-rimmed, oval-shaped eyeglasses sat on his narrow nose. His light-colored hair was short, almost in a crew cut style. The two sat at the table and faced the window. O’Neal placed a file folder in front of her. “Take a look at this.”
She skimmed the contents of the folder. “What am I looking at here?”
“Remember how everything we had pointed toward The Tucker Group being involved, but we just couldn’t find the lynch pin tying them to the deaths and disappearances of the people on that list?”
Cruz lifted her head and nodded.
“I found that pin.” O’Neal leaned forward and pointed out several lines on the papers. “These here are sizable monthly deposits to The Tucker Group on the first of every month like clockwork. Now, it doesn’t show where the money is coming from, but I used my contacts and was able to find out the money originated from a Swiss bank account.”
“Whose name is on the account?” Cruz peeled back a sheet of paper and glanced at the page beneath it.
“The Swiss won’t divulge that information—confidential.”
“So, it’s a dead end.” She let go of the piece of paper.
O’Neal leaned back before sitting erect and pointing at the file folder. “Ordinarily, yes, but I noticed the amounts were exactly the same every month, right down to the penny.”
Cruz whirled her head around toward O’Neal, hearing the excitement in his voice.
“So, I dug a little deeper and discovered the amount matches with a line item buried deep in the operating budget for the Department of Defense.” He raised his hands. “Let me back up a bit. The exact amount is not there; however, there are several smaller amounts listed that, when added together, equal the amount that was deposited into the account of The Tucker Group on a monthly basis. The dates even match.”
Cruz squinted and tilted her head. “The DOD is regularly giving money to a private sec
urity company…in exchange for what?”
O’Neal shook his head. “That’s just it, Cruz. They aren’t giving money directly to The Tucker Group.
“I don’t understand.”
“To the untrained eye, it looks like several small random amounts are being expensed on the usual types of items the military would need—bullets, bombs, guns, etc. They are so small that no one would think twice about it. In actuality, the money is being transferred to the Swiss account, which acts as a holding account, if you will, until the figure hits this specified amount.” O’Neal pointed to the line items on the papers. “Then, the transfer is made to The Tucker Group, and the process starts all over again.”
Cruz was putting together a picture in her mind and she did not like the image. Somewhere, someone in the government was channeling money to a private corporation. When things like that happened, top-secret covert black-ops programs usually were at the heart of it. Those involved did not want American taxpayers to find out how their tax dollars were being spent.
“Are you ready for the next piece of the puzzle?”
Cruz faced O’Neal. “What, there’s more?”
He pursed his lips and nodded his head. “Senator Chuck Hastings personally made the request for every one of those smaller expense items.”
She shrugged. “He’s Chairman of the Armed Services Committee. He’s involved with the budget.”
“That’s true. It may be nothing or it may be part of something bigger. I don’t know. All I know is that he does not normally make requests of this nature. It’s a little odd and might be worth investigating.”
Cruz stood. “Nice work, Marty.”