The Unsanctioned Patriot

by Alex Ander

  Cruz glanced at the room’s décor. Not usually known for sarcasm, she could not control herself. “Wow, you sure know how to treat a lady.” She strolled to the bed and sat. As soon as her butt hit the mattress, she sprung to her feet and went to the corner of the room, opting to sit in a hardwood chair next to a floor lamp on the other side of the door. I think I’ll take my chances with this.

  Hardy sat in the other wooden chair and began typing on the tablet. He established a connection to the free Wi-Fi the motel provided and was surfing the Internet.

  “So, you never answered my question.” She rested her arms on the chair and crossed her legs.

  “What question was that?”

  Cruz did not respond, but continued to stare at him. She knew he knew what she wanted to know and she was not going to play games.

  Hardy had to tell her about himself, but he did not know how much he should divulge. She was an agent of the FBI and he, as he recently had been informed, had been carrying out unsanctioned military operations, involving the death and abduction of many, many people. This was another moment-of-truth, like the one at Ludlum’s house when she picked up her pistol. He was uncertain about trusting her then, and he had his doubts, now. Everything he had learned about her, pointed toward a professional who faithfully carried out her duties, regardless of the circumstances. He had grown fond of her, however, and he thought she might have had feelings for him. He closed the tablet and picked up his chair, rotating it to face her.

  “I’m sure you’re aware of my military background…just as I’m aware of your background, Special Agent Raychel Elisa DelaCruz, corporal in the military, sergeant for the Dalhart P.D., Miss Texas.”

  Her eyebrows shot upward before she relaxed. After what she had witnessed, she should not be surprised that he knew so much about her.

  Hardy leaned forward, rested his arms on his thighs and clasped his hands together. “What you are not aware of is what I’ve been doing for the last three years.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Up until two hours ago, I had thought I was the squad leader of a covert unit, working for the United States Marine Corps. We conducted clandestine missions around the globe designed to disrupt the actions of foreign governments, rogue nations and terrorist cells hostile to the United States. I was responsible for three teams of four men each.” Hardy stopped and looked at the floor. A flood of memories came rushing back to him.

  Cruz uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair. She had heard his voice crack. “Were those men with you at the tavern?”

  Hanging his head, Hardy nodded. “I lost all of them.” He massaged his forehead with his fingertips.

  Cruz was silent. She remembered what she had felt when she lost a good friend a few years ago. She could not imagine what Hardy was going through.

  Hardy leaned back. “Before Colonel Ludlum shot himself, he told me that I, and my entire team, worked for him. As far as the U.S. government was concerned, we had been discharged from active duty.”

  Cruz held up her hand. “Wait a minute. That doesn’t make any sense. Colonel Franklin Ludlum is a member of the United States Marine Corps.”

  “I know he was in the Marine Corps. After what he told me…I’m not so sure.” Hardy crossed his arms in front of his chest. “He said our operations were given to us by a private corporation.” Hardy thought for a moment, trying to remember the name. “He said the name of the company was called…The Tucker Group. We were all employed by this group, not the Marine Corps.”

  Cruz’s body stiffened. “Did you say The Tucker Group?”

  Hardy nodded. He had heard the change in her voice. “What is it?”

  She stood and paced between the chair and the bed, one hand on her hip and the other hand pressed against her forehead.

  Hardy sensed she knew something. “What’s going on, Cruz?”

  She stopped pacing. “I’m thirsty. Are you?”

  Hardy frowned. “W-What?”

  Cruz left the room and came back a few minutes later with two cans of Coca Cola. She had seen a pop machine on their way from the motel manager’s office. She handed one can to Hardy before opening and taking a long drink from hers. She put the can on the desk and told him what she knew about The Tucker Group.

  Before she had finished, Hardy was filling in the blanks on his own. The corporation was the key to figuring out who killed his team members and how he had been tricked into working for them. He opened his tablet and navigated to the home page of The Tucker Group before finding the page with the names and faces of the CEO and board of directors.

  Standing behind him, she looked over his shoulder, rubbing the back of her head and grimacing. Her head was aching.

  Hardy heard her grunt and looked back. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, my head started hurting again after you pushed me into that bookshelf.”

  Hardy glanced away before focusing on the screen.

  She noticed the change in his demeanor. “Don’t worry about it. I would’ve done the same thing in your situation.” She motioned toward the tablet. “What are you doing?”

  “I need to speak with someone in charge over there at The Tucker Group.” Hardy clicked on the picture of one of the board of directors.

  “Good luck. I’ve made several calls to them and no one of importance has returned my calls.”

  Hardy opened his cell phone and dialed the number to the company. “Sometimes, it’s not what you say, but how you say it that makes all the difference.” Even though it was after five o’clock, Hardy was certain someone would be staffing the phones—he was right.

  A bright and cheery voice came from the other end of the phone. “The Tucker Group, this is Angela. How may I be of service?”

  Hardy was the epitome professionalism. “Hello, Angela. How are you?”

  “I’m doing very well. And, you, sir?”

  “I’m good. Thank you for asking…I need to speak with Mr. Robert Tucker, please.”

  Cruz stared at him, slack-jawed. If she had not been looking at him, she would have thought he was dressed in a three-piece suit and sitting behind a mahogany desk. She shook her head. Why am I surprised anymore?

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Tucker has left for the day. May I take a message?”

  “No, I’m afraid I need to contact him, personally. I tried his other numbers, but he doesn’t seem to be answering. Could you tell me where he is? It’s very important that I reach him.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Tucker left explicit orders that he is not to be disturbed. I’d be more than happy to take a message for you and make sure he gets it first thing Monday morning.”

  Hardy studied the screen on the tablet. He changed his businesslike persona to one of haughty executive. “Mr. Tucker is going to want to be disturbed for me, Angela. My name is Edward J. Hawthorne, the second. Perhaps, you’ve heard of me. I’m the Chairman of the Board of Directors for The Tucker Group—your employer, Angela.” Hardy sensed he had the young woman’s attention. “Now, I am only going to ask you this question one time, miss. Where can I get in touch with Mr. Tucker?”

  The young secretary was caught in the middle. Her boss had left instructions that he did not want to be disturbed, but now she was talking to her boss’s boss—or so she thought—and he wanted to know Mr. Tucker’s whereabouts.

  Having stated his authority, Hardy softened his tone with the secretary, giving her a way out of her predicament. “Listen, Angela, I know you are just trying to follow the orders of your boss. I respect that. I really do. That is why I am not going to tell Mr. Tucker that you were the one, who gave me the information. It will be our secret.” He heard Angela let out a sigh. His one-person act was a spin on the ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine.

  “Okay, Mr. Hawthorne. Mr. Tucker is away with his family for the weekend. They’re staying at a cabin up North on the lake.”

  Hardy wrote the information on a nearby notepad, thanked Angela for her help and disconnected the call. Turning to his left, he saw t
he look on Cruz’s face. “What?”

  She was shaking her head. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  Hardy raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to connect the dots.

  She realized it was a dumb question to ask. Of course, a man with his experience would have many talents. “Never mind…so, we know where he is. What are we going to do?”

  Chapter 21: My Operation

  Hardy stood at the end of the bed, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and socks. He fished around inside the duffle bag and withdrew a pair of black six-inch A.T.A.C. Storm Boots, TacLite Pro Pants and a long sleeve shirt. He threw the items, made by 5.11 Tactical, on the bed. He saw Special Agent Cruz in his peripheral vision. She was standing near the head of the bed with her hands on her hips, her weight shifted to one foot. “This is my operation and I’m doing it alone.” He pulled up the pants and grabbed the shirt. They had been arguing ever since Hardy disconnected the call to The Tucker Group. Cruz had been pleading her case for getting the FBI involved. At the very least, she wanted to accompany him.

  “I’m an FBI agent for crying out loud. Don’t you think it would be wise to have someone in my position there, asking the right kind of questions?” Her eyes glimpsed his chest and she bit her lower lip. Hardy’s five-foot eleven-inch frame was ripped with muscle. He must have less than five percent body fat. She lowered her gaze. His stomach was flat and showed the ribbed lines of his abdominal muscles—the proverbial ‘six-pack.’

  “Cruz, I plan to ask Tucker only one question.” Hardy buttoned the shirt. “Once I have my answer, I plan to put a bullet in his brain.” He put on his boots, tightened the laces and retrieved the VTAC LBE Tactical Molle Vest from the duffle bag.

  She leaned forward and closed her fingers around the vest, preventing him from taking it. “What you’re talking about is tantamount to murder.”

  “That’s why you, as an FBI agent, have no business being anywhere near that cabin.” Hardy covered her hand with his hand and regarded her, his mind snapping a mental picture. If I’d met you another time, another place…We might have been good together. He slipped his fingers between the vest and her hand and loosened her grip. She did not fight him. He slid the vest closer to him and attached equipment to it before shoving it into the duffle bag.

  Cruz watched him check the MP5 rifle and insert a fresh magazine, which had a coupler attached to it. The other end of the coupler held a second magazine, allowing for quicker magazine changes when the rifle was empty. After his gear was stowed, the last thing he did was unplug the tablet from the wall outlet, stuff it into the duffle bag and zip the bag shut.

  As an FBI agent, she knew she could not be involved in an assault like this without a warrant; however, she did not like the idea of Hardy going after Tucker alone. A man like him would have several bodyguards, even on vacation. While Hardy may not have been outgunned, he would be outmanned. She tried to reason with him from a perspective he might understand. “As a squad leader, would you allow one of your teammates to go off on a mission like this alone?”

  Having picked up the duffle bag, Hardy let it fall to the bed. She was right. His men acted as a team. No one went into battle alone. There was always another man backing him up. There was one important element missing from Cruz’s logic, however, and he was quick to point it out to her. “That’s just it. I have no team. They’re all dead. Tucker ordered them to be killed.” Hardy picked up the duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Now, where can I drop you?”

  With her hands folded in front of her chest, she appeared to be praying he would listen to her. “You have no idea what Tucker’s role may have been in all of this, or if he was even involved.” She was grasping at straws at this point. Her argument was weak. All of the evidence pointed toward Tucker.

  “That’s what I plan to find out.” Hardy motioned with his chin. “Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”

  Cruz’s argument was not swaying him. She was witnessing a stubborn side to his personality and she was not going to succeed in talking him out of this, especially something of this magnitude. She brought her still folded hands to her mouth. After a few moments, she let her hands fall to her sides, relenting with a word of caution. “If you go through with this, there’s no way I’ll be able to protect you. Your name will be added to the FBI’s most wanted list and every agent in the country will be looking for you.” She walked toward the door. Drawing even with him, she stopped. “That includes me.” Cruz opened her mouth to add something, but stopped herself, opting to walk away.

  Hardy pondered the possibility that one day she may be the agent who finds him and tries to bring him to justice. The thought did not set well with him. She may have been a talented agent when it came to investigating crimes, but she would be no match for his combat skills. He watched her leave him. His chest rose and fell before letting out a sigh. Another time, another place…

  Chapter 22: Potomac River

  The silence in the Ford Ranger hung like a heavy fog over water. The constant hum of the tires rolling over the pavement added to the tension. Although Special Agent Cruz’s house was only a short distance from the motel, the drive seemed like a cross-country trek. Her house was on Cripplegate Rd., a stone’s throw away from the Potomac River. Hardy stopped the Ranger in the driveway, a short distance from the garage.

  She got out and closed the door. She leaned over and looked at him through the open window. “Take care of yourself, Hardy.” She paused before adding, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never meet again.” After one last look, she managed an awkward smile before walking toward the front door.

  Watching her, Hardy knew what she meant. If they ever met again, they would be on opposite sides of the law. He waited until she had entered the house before shifting the truck into reverse and backing away, his gaze never leaving the front door.

  Chapter 23: Oval Office

  6:46 p.m.

  Director Jameson tossed his cell phone on the desk and leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers behind his head. He had not been able to reach Special Agent Cruz for the past three hours. It was unlike her not to take his call, even if it was after hours. After Senator Hastings had called to inform Jameson of the meeting between Hastings and Cruz, Jameson had called her. After several failed attempts, he finally contacted Martin O’Neal, who brought the Director up to speed on everything that had transpired. The last time anyone had heard from Cruz, she was on her way to meet with Senator Hastings.

  Jameson had wanted to speak with Cruz personally before going to the President, but Jameson felt he needed to get the President involved sooner rather than later. He called President Conklin on the President’s private number. When the President answered, he sounded distracted. Jameson could hear a sporting event in the background.

  “I apologize for calling so late, Mr. President, but I have to talk to you about a matter that has come to my attention.”

  “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  The President knew his Director would never have bothered him so late, unless it was important. “Let’s meet in the Oval Office in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  When Director Jameson entered the Oval Office, the President was sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, holding a coffee cup. He had recently turned fifty-five and was in great shape for a man of his age. His hair was gray, but showed no signs of balding. He wore a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, top button undone, and a pair of black slacks and black casual loafers. When he saw the door open, he put the cup on the coffee table and motioned for Jameson to join him.

  Armed with the information he had received from Martin O’Neal, Jameson told the President everything that had happened in the last twenty-two hours, starting with the explosion at the tavern. When he had finished, he sat back on the couch and waited for the President. After several moments of staring at the documents on the coffee t
able in front of him, the President took a deep breath and spoke.

  “Do you think these events are related?”

  “The evidence would seem to suggest that, sir.”

  The President turned his attention away from the papers. “I didn’t ask you what the evidence would suggest. I asked you what you think.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence, sir. These men showed up at the hospital within hours of the explosion. Only a handful of people knew there was a survivor. The media was still reporting that everyone in the tavern had been killed. That means someone high up tipped off someone else and that someone sent a team to intercept Hardy. So, to answer your question, sir, I think these events are related.”

  The President pursed his lips and slowly nodded. “And Hastings?”

  Jameson thought for a moment before answering. It was no secret that he and Hastings had a strained relationship. They were cordial to each other out of respect for the President. Any accusations against the Senator could be construed as vengeful on Jameson’s part; however, he had to be honest with his boss.

  “I believe the evidence—” Jameson stopped himself. “I believe Senator Hastings is somehow involved, either directly or indirectly. I know he’s a close friend of yours and he and I don’t see eye to eye on most things, but I feel I need to be straight with you, sir.”

  President Conklin was well aware of how his director and the Senator felt about each other, and knew how difficult it must have been for Jameson to bring this matter to his attention. Chuck Hastings had been a close friend for many years, but the President had great respect for his director, too, valuing the man’s insight and opinion on serious matters.