The President's Man

by Alex Ander

  When the lead man reached around his body to grab the door handle to the restaurant, Hardy noticed a bulge under the man’s jacket. Concealing full-size firearms under a suit coat was difficult. Suit coats were fitted to the shape of the wearer. Stuff two pounds of steel underneath and the result was always the same, a telltale bulge.

  Chapter 6: Contact

  Special Agent Cruz stood inside the front door and removed her sunglasses. She tucked one of the bows inside her shirt, letting the sunglasses hang from the neckline. Not seeing Charity in the immediate vicinity, Cruz went to the back. In the corner, sitting in a booth, she saw someone matching the description she had been given. After viewing Charity’s photo on her mobile, Cruz slowly approached the booth, her FBI credentials in her hand.

  Charity rested her forehead on her crossed hands. Sensing someone was standing near her, she lifted her head. Her eyes were drawn to the badge in Cruz’s hand and she relaxed when she saw the letters FBI.

  “Charity Sinclair?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I’m Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz. Director Jameson sent me.” She spotted the scratches on the woman’s arms and legs. “Are you hurt? Do you need any immediate medical attention?”

  Charity held out her arms in front of her, examining the red lines. Inwardly, she laughed. She looked as if someone had used her for a piece of paper. “No, these are just scratches from tree limbs.” She pointed over her shoulder. “I walked through the woods back there to get here. I’m fine.”

  Cruz motioned. “We should get going, Miss Sinclair.”

  Charity nodded and stood.

  The two women walked toward the front doors, Cruz in the lead. Rounding the last booth, they stopped. Cruz grabbed Charity’s right arm, ready to push or pull her in whatever direction was necessary.

  Her voice cracking, Charity put her fingers to her lips. “Oh, no, they found me.” Blocking their way out the front were three men in dark suits. She recognized the one in the middle. She had caught a glimpse of him when the agent had escorted her out of the safe house. He was the one who had shot the agent who saved her life.

  “Stay calm.” Cruz’s eyes shifted left and right and back again. She sized up each man, determining which one was the most dangerous. The only way out of the restaurant was through the front door. The man to her right was blocking the way to the exit at the back of the restaurant. Even if she drew her pistol first, taking out three men without being shot was a tough act. Plus, she had Charity’s safety to consider. Her eyes continued to scan the men and the immediate area, searching for another option.

  “Special Agent Cruz of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I believe.” The man standing in front of her took off his sunglasses and held them up to the light, checking for smudges.

  She faced him. He had an arrogant demeanor and was extremely calm. He appeared to be Latino and wore a dark gray suit, white dress shirt and shiny black shoes. His forehead was perspiring. The man smiled and removed a white handkerchief from the front pocket of his trousers before rubbing his cloth-covered fingers over the lenses of the sunglasses. Afterward, he used the handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face.

  “You’re wondering how I know your name, no.” He tucked his sunglasses inside the left breast pocket of his jacket and folded the handkerchief before returning it to his trouser pocket. “We, Latinos, are not stupid like you Americans think we are. We have our intelligence sources, too.” He pulled back the lapels of his jacket and slid his hands inside his trouser pockets. He lowered his head, but raised his eyes toward Cruz. “I’ll make you a deal.” He tipped his head toward the back corner. “If you go over there, sit down and have yourself a cup of coffee, I promise not to kill you.”

  Charity’s fear came through her trembling arm. Cruz gave her a sideways glance and shook her head, reassuring her witness that the man’s offer had no traction.

  “I’m a reasonable man. There’s no reason for both of you to die, today.” He motioned toward the men on either side of him. “Do you really think you can outdraw three of us?”

  If she drew her weapon, she could get two of them, but not the third. The scene before her was starting to move in slow motion. She was trying to come up with a plan that would give her and Charity the best chance for survival. Pushing her witness to the floor and drawing her weapon would save a second. A second was a lot of time in a gunfight. Since the man to the left was closest, he would get the first bullet. Gray Suit would be last; he still had his hands in his pockets and he would take a split-second longer to reach his gun. Flexing the fingers of her right hand, she visualized the moves she would have to make. Chairs scraped across the floor and patrons scurried away. The kitchen staff ran toward the back door. At first, Cruz thought the people had seen the pending fight. A familiar deep voice from behind the man in the dark gray suit told her otherwise.

  “The real question is do you really think you can outdraw a man who has a rifle pointed at your back?” Hardy had an MP5 rifle, swinging it back and forth, pointing the muzzle at each one of the men. Back in Washington, D.C., when Hardy put the suitcases in the Charger’s trunk, he had noticed a black duffle bag. He knew it was a cache of weapons and gear. Everyone in the industry had one.

  “And, you must be the one named Hardy.” Gray Suit turned.

  “Not so fast, slick.” Hardy raised the MP5 and aimed it at the man’s head. The man stopped. “Now, slowly take your hands out of your pockets. And, if I see anything in them, you won’t see anything ever again. Comprende, Amigo?”

  The man showed his hands and chuckled. “You Americans butcher our language.” He shook his head. “Now, I suppose you’re going to call this a ‘Mexican standoff.’”

  Hardy ignored the man.

  “You won’t make it out of here alive. My men will be waiting for you outside. They will gun you down the minute you step through those doors.”

  Hardy knew the man was bluffing. “Since you like deals so much, here’s one for you. From now on, every time you speak I put a round in the back of your knees. Open your trap enough times and you’ll never walk again. It’s your choice…stop talking, or you stop walking. Now, one at a time, I want you to remove your pistolas and throw them on the floor.” Hardy aimed his rifle at the man on the left. “Starting with you big fella.”

  Gray Suit saw that Hardy and Cruz, now holding her weapon, were focused on the same man. He saw an opportunity to save his own life. Without moving his head, he caught his henchman’s gaze. He gave him a barely perceptible nod of his head and the man on the left threw open his suit coat.

  Hardy pressed the trigger and the MP5 barked three times; the rifle was set to ‘three-round burst.’ All three bullets found their target. A split-second later, Cruz fired three rounds at the same man. He spun around and landed on a small café table. The table toppled over and the man spilled onto the floor. Before Hardy could bring the rifle back, Gray Suit had grabbed the barrel and driven it downward. Three more rounds let loose, ricocheting off the floor.

  Cruz swung her pistol to her left and shoved Charity to the floor. The second henchman fired his weapon. Cruz dove on top of Charity, while firing several rounds at him. Of the five bullets that hit the mark, the second one was the most important. That bullet had entered through the man’s mouth, shattering his teeth and severing his spinal cord. He crumpled to the floor.

  Two men down, Cruz found Gray Suit. Through the legs of tables and chairs, she saw him and Hardy struggling for control of the rifle. There were too many obstacles in the way to take a clean shot. The man kneed Hardy in the ribs. Three rounds fired from the rifle and three holes appeared in the ceiling. Cruz stayed on top of Charity, protecting her witness from stray bullets.

  Gray Suit jerked backward on the rifle before pushing forward with all of his might. The sudden change in direction was too much for Hardy. He lost his balance and fell backward, landing hard on the floor. Three rounds shot out of the rifle’s muzzle before the man came down on h
im. Both men lay on the floor. Neither one was moving.

  Cruz shouted, “Hardy,” getting to her feet. Not looking at her witness, she shot a finger in Charity’s direction, “Stay down,” and moved around a table. Standing next to the commingled arms and legs of Hardy and the attacker, she saw Hardy’s face. His eyes were staring at the ceiling and his mouth was slightly open. During her career, she had seen death up close. The faces of the dead had one thing in common; they were void of all expression. Hardy had that look. Cruz felt her throat closing and her stomach muscles convulsing. Her pistol felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. The only thing heavier was the lump in her chest. She knelt next to Hardy.

  A fraction of a second later, he coughed and expelled a long breath before taking a huge gulp of air. He coughed again and rolled the body to the left; the wooden handle of a steak knife protruding from of the corpse’s chest. A growing circle of blood stained the white dress shirt.

  As he fell, Hardy had grabbed the knife from one of the tables. The man came down on the blade, while his knee rammed into Hardy’s groin. Still coughing, he reached for Cruz.

  “Thank God.” She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and helped him stand. “I thought you were dead.”

  He bent over and cradled his smarting testicles. “Right now,” his chest heaved, “I think I’d prefer that.”

  “Shall I rub it? Would that help?”

  He rose to his full height, a devilish grin spreading across his lips, while his mind went to a far off place. He ogled her out of one eye, his half smile still present. “Yes…and no.”

  She patted his chest. “Down boy…I was kidding. Are you okay to stand?” He frowned before nodding his head. “Good. I’ll get Charity and we can get out of here.”

  Hardy picked up the MP5 and removed the magazine—two rounds. He put the magazine back in and pulled back on the bolt, until he saw the rim of a nine-millimeter case. Three rounds left.

  Cruz returned with Charity and the three of them left the restaurant. Cruz hurried around the front bumper of the vehicle. “Charity, get in back and stay down.” She climbed into the driver’s seat. Once Hardy was inside, she jammed her foot down on the accelerator and the tires squealed. Smoke rose into the air and two black lines appeared on the pavement behind the Charger’s spinning tires.

  Cruz pressed buttons on the Charger’s built-in GPS navigation screen. She had entered the safe house coordinates from Director Jameson on the way to the restaurant. Confirming they were going in the right direction, south on 35E, she adjusted the rear-view mirror to see Charity. “We’re on our way to another safe house. Hang in there, Miss Sinclair.” She glanced at Hardy, who was cupping his... “How are your—” she shook her head, “you holding up?”

  “I’ll be fine.” He maneuvered the MP5 rifle and managed a brief smile. “Don’t worry. You still have a future with me.”

  Blushing, Cruz glimpsed the rifle. “Lucky for us, you found my secret hiding place.”

  Chapter 7: Safe House

  6:04 p.m.

  Director Jameson had provided the coordinates to a safe house south of Lancaster near Bear Creek. The house, a short drive from the Overland Steakhouse, was at the end of a long dirt driveway and surrounded by trees. The nearest tree line was no less than fifty meters from the house, so the occupants had a clear line of sight in all directions. Special Agent Cruz steered the Charger toward the two-story house, the roof’s pitch almost flat. The window shades were closed. The exterior of the house was worn, the paint peeling and faded. Sections of siding hung at angles. It was evident the house had seen better days.

  She checked the GPS.

  Hardy read her thoughts. “Are you sure this is the right place?” He surveyed the house and the surrounding terrain. Tall weeds flanked the Charger. The brown grass had not been mowed in weeks. Dropping a match or flicking a cigarette would have started a forest fire. An old sedan was parked out back. The tires were flat and the driver’s door, along with the windows, was missing. Weeds found their way into the shell of what at one time had been a nice car.

  Cruz stepped on the brake pedal. “The GPS says we’re here.”

  Hardy put a shoulder to the door. “Well, let’s hope we’re all current on our tetanus shots.” He got out and ascended the stairs that led to the front porch.

  Cruz joined him; Charity was two paces behind them.

  “Uh…how do we get in?” He eyed the solid steel door with no doorknob.

  Cruz ran her fingers around the bottom of a mailbox attached to the side of the house. Finding what she was looking for, she pushed up and the right side of the mailbox popped open. A numeric keypad had been built into the siding. She pressed numbers, corresponding to the security code Jameson had sent, and hit ‘enter.’ A sound similar to briefcase latches releasing—only louder—was heard and the heavy door opened a crack.

  “Cool. You FBI people have the neatest gadgets.”

  Cruz and Charity exchanged a glance. Men and their toys.

  He shoved the door the rest of the way open. The house was dark, but a faint light came from around the window shades. Feeling for a switch on the wall, he slid his hand upward and three lamps lit the room. Judging by the condition of the exterior, Hardy had expected the inside to be a mess.

  The living room was nicely decorated. To the left, a stone fireplace with a flat-screen television was mounted above the opening. The fireplace faced a large wooden coffee table to his right. The table was surrounded by sectional sofas, arranged in the shape of a ‘U.’ Behind each sectional, a sofa table supported a lamp. In the far right corner, another flat-screen television, two straight back lounge chairs, two ottomans and a coffee table—complete with a video game console—formed a cozy gaming area.

  Hardy advanced further into the room, admiring the hardwood flooring. Letting out a low whistle, he said, “Very nice.” A wooden staircase, accessed from the right side of the fireplace, rose to the second floor. The staircase passed in front of the chimney on a diagonal.

  Cruz slipped past him and headed straight for the kitchen at the back of the house. Passing the dining area, she noted the large oak table surrounded by six solid wood chairs. The kitchen cabinets, baseboard trim and flooring were also made of hardwood and stained a dark color.

  While she continued to inspect the kitchen, Hardy walked past the fireplace and made a button hook. “I’m going to check out the upstairs.”

  He did a ‘one-eighty’ at the top of the stairs, his fingers dragging across the rough stones of the chimney and walked down the upstairs’ hallway. He leaned over a wooden railing to the right and could see most of the main floor.

  Four doors were lined up on the left side. The first and last one led to bedrooms, each room set up the same—bunk beds against the left wall and a flat-screen television on the wall across from them. A desk and chair in one corner and two dressers in the opposite corner rounded out the floor plan.

  The second and third doors led to bathrooms. The left bathroom had the sink, toilet and shower against the right wall. Shelves holding towels, washcloths, bathmats and toiletries were on the left wall. The right bathroom was a ‘mirror-image’ of the left.

  Hardy descended the stairs and saw Charity rummaging through the refrigerator. He veered left and checked out the two rooms on the first floor. One was a bedroom, arranged like the others, except with a queen size bed, and the other was a third bathroom. Can’t have too many bathrooms, I guess.

  A duffle bag slung over a shoulder, Cruz entered the back door and dumped her suitcase on the kitchen floor. She poked a finger at the luggage and glanced at Charity. “You should be able to find some clothes in there that fit.”

  “Thank you.” Charity closed the refrigerator and picked up the suitcase. “There’s not much to eat.” She took a bite of a juicy Jonagold apple and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m,” she chewed and talked, “going to take a hot shower.”

  “You have your choice of two upstairs,” Hardy jerk
ed a thumb behind him, “or one down here.”

  Charity sunk her teeth into the apple and sloughed upstairs, the suitcase bouncing off her leg with every other step.

  Cruz slipped the duffle bag off her shoulder, dropped it onto the dining room table and unzipped it. “I parked the car around back, so it wouldn’t be seen from the road.” She fumbled around inside the bag before handing Hardy two full magazines for the MP5. After clipping a double-magazine pouch—two full pistol magazines inside—to her belt, she slid the zipper on the duffle all the way to the right and faced Hardy, who had already inserted one of the magazines into the rifle and was shoving the second into the back pocket of his jeans. The hiss of water sounded from the upstairs shower.

  Hardy set the rifle on the table and pulled out a chair. “How long before someone from your agency shows up?” He sat and let out a sigh. “And, how did that guy know my name?”

  Cruz shook her head. “He knew mine, too.” She put her cell phone to her ear and ran her fingers through her hair. “Whoever he was, he seemed—” she stopped talking to Hardy and spoke to the cell. “Director Jameson, it’s Cruz. We’re at the safe house. The witness is secure. How far out is your team?”

  “They’re airborne and should be on-site in ninety minutes.”

  She caught Hardy’s eye and mouthed the words ‘ninety minutes.’ “We were almost too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She relayed the events to Jameson. “How many people knew the witness was at the restaurant? Unless those men followed Charity, how could they have gotten there so fast?” She paused. “Who was with you when you called me?”

  Jameson was lost in his thoughts.

  “Sir, are you still there?”