Act of justice, p.6
Act of Justice, page 6
Leaning forward, Cruz poked her head between the front seats. “Hardy, we all want to see these kids—and their mother—safely out of the country, but we can’t rush this operation. We can’t risk losing one of our own on a high risk raid.”
“I think we all,” Dahlia interjected, “want the safe return of those innocent people. Believe me.” She recalled the hostage situation that had set her feet on the path toward becoming an assassin. “I know all too well what can happen when those in power,” her nostrils flared, as she made a fist, “sit on their hands.” She shook her head. “But the five of us going up against that kind of opposition is just plain nuts.”
Cruz sat back and wiped perspiration from her brow, “We need a better plan,” before drying the hand on her shorts.
Hardy whipped his head toward Ramirez. “What does the CIA have on the guy who’s holding the hostages?”
One hand on the wheel, the driver stroked his chin with the other. “Alejandro Martinez is a gun runner mostly…although he does dabble in illegal drugs. He’s been on the CIA’s watch list for some time now, but he’s not that big of a player to warrant any direct action.”
“What kind of intel have you gathered on him?”
“We know his habits, daily routines; the women he visits, the scale of his operations…that sort of information. To be honest, I think the higher ups are waiting for him to lead them to a bigger fish, to someone who has a more global reach. They don’t want to expose Martinez too soon.”
Hardy half closed an eye at the other man. “You said you know the scale of his operations?”
Ramirez nodded.
“Does that include where he stashes the guns and drugs?”
“We know of a few locations. Why?”
“Are any of the caches close to…” Hardy tilted his head and flicked his eyes toward the direction from which the vehicle had travelled, “his compound?”
The CIA officer squinted at the road ahead for a few seconds. “There’s one a mile away; a small building in the middle of nowhere. Martinez has it camouflaged, but our drones have seen heat signatures coming from the area. Large trucks have been spotted in the vicinity at the same time. Our intelligence says he’s storing military grade weapons there.” A beat. “Why do you ask?”
After gazing out his window for a few moments, Hardy came back to the other male. “Were you able to get those C-4 blocks I requested?”
A slow smile spread over Ramirez’s face, as he nodded his head.
Cruz spied the side of Hardy’s face. “You want to blow up the guns? Why?”
“To,” Charity stared straight ahead, her voice monotone, “create a diversion and divide the enemy’s forces, giving us better odds for success.”
Simultaneously tipping their heads to one side, Cruz and Dahlia squared shoulders with the third female.
Hardy pivoted his upper body and gaped at the soft-spoken woman, who had just sounded like a hardened battlefield general.
Noticing the extra attention, the computer guru glimpsed the other women, shrugged and held out her hands, palms up. “What?” She focused on Hardy. “That’s what you’re planning to do, isn’t it?”
Draping an arm around Charity’s shoulders, Dahlia jostled the twenty-two-year-old back and forth, while smiling at her teammate in the front passenger seat. “All that training is paying off, Hardy. Our little girl is growing up.”
Hardy let a half grin cross his face before turning back around in his seat.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 10: Is That an Order?
April 2nd; 2:10 p.m.
Maracaibo, Venezuela
Crowne Plaza Maruma Hotel & Casino
In Ramirez’s hotel room, Cruz, Dahlia and Charity sat shoulder-to-shoulder on a couch, while Hardy and Ramirez were in easy chairs across from the trio. All of them were reviewing mission paperwork, planning for the upcoming rescue operation.
Hardy uncrossed his legs and tossed his notes onto the coffee table separating the men from the women. “And from there, the USS Minnesota will pick us up.” Standing, he rotated his upper body back and forth before cupping his lower back and bending over sideways. “Are there any questions?”
Seated in the middle of the sofa, Dahlia removed the pen she had been chewing on and eyed Ramirez. “You’re sure this guy with the fishing vessel will be waiting for us at the coast?”
He nodded. “Positive. He’s receiving a sizable cash payout, half of which comes when we’re safely delivered to the submarine. Trust me. I’ve worked with him in the past. He’ll be there.”
“Okay then,” she stood and dropped her papers and pen onto the table, “I’m good with the plan.”
Hardy spied Cruz and Charity. “You two good?”
They nodded at him.
He checked the time on his watch. “Now all that’s left to do is wait for dark.” He glimpsed the hotel room’s door before meeting Cruz’s gaze, as she got to her feet. “I think I’m going to head back to our room and take a shower.”
She half grinned at him. “Good idea.”
He recoiled slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Hardy had worked for a couple hours after arriving at the hotel, fell asleep in his clothes, woke up and went back to work for the next several hours. “Are you telling me I stink?”
Bringing her blouse up over her nose, “If she isn’t,” Dahlia slipped between Hardy and Cruz, “I am.”
He reached out to smack the woman hiding her face like a bank robber from an old Western.
She avoided the strike with a dip of her shoulder, skipped a few feet and headed for the door. “I’m going to go see what this town has to offer. Anyone interested?”
“No,” Hardy shot back.
“You’re showering anyways. You don’t count.”
“I mean, no, I don’t want anyone leaving the hotel. This is still Venezuela. There are a million scam artists and criminals,” he pointed at the drawn window curtains, “out there…just like the guy from the airport.”
Dahlia held up a hand. “I appreciate your concern, but I can handle myself. In fact, I already feel sorry for the punk who tries to pull anything on me.”
Hardy strode toward her. “I said no, and that’s final.”
She scowled at him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had to do what my father told me to do. Even then, I was piss poor at obeying his rules.” She jabbed a finger at Hardy. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Hardy took a step closer, his pectoral muscle making contact with her finger. “That’s just it. I can tell you what to do. It’s a little thing called chain of command.” He drove his thumb into his chest and leaned forward, closing the distant between their reddening faces. “And I’m the one in command.”
Squinting up at him, Dahlia clenched her jaw and balled her hands.
Cruz and Charity shot a glance at each other before approaching the verbal combatants.
“Listen,” grunted Dahlia, “I—”
“No, it’s time you shut up and listened.”
Her eyes bulged.
“You’re not some rogue operator anymore, who can do whatever the hell she wants to do. You’re part of a team now. And as such, you follow orders—my orders—and you do your damn job.”
Cruz took his elbow.
“Is that—” twisting his upper body, he broke free of her grip. “Is that clear? Because if it isn’t…then when this is all over, you can go back to your old job.” He brushed by her, threw open the door and glared at her. “At least that way I won’t have to worry about you getting shot and killed…because you wanted to see what the town has to offer.” He left and the door slowly closed behind him.
Dahlia spun around and cocked her head at Cruz. “Am I missing something? What the hell was that all about?”
Cruz stared at the door, as the latch caught. In her mind, she saw Hardy and her seated aboard the Gulfstream, talking about the incident in Brussels. She came back to her teammate. “It has nothing to do with you. Well…it does, but not the way you think. The briefing yesterday morning brought up a lot of bad memories for him.”
Dahlia slowly nodded her head. “Margaux.”
“Exactly. He doesn’t want that to happen to you,” Cruz eyed Charity, “or you…or any of us for that matter.” She put a hand on Dahlia’s upper arm. “He didn’t mean what he said; he wants you on this team. Just give him some time to cool off.” A beat. “And please stay in the hotel.” Cruz added a smile. “I hear they have a casino.”
Dahlia sighed, “Fine,” and lifted a finger, a faint grin spreading across her lips before vanishing. “I wouldn’t want you mad at me too.”
… … … … …
2:33 p.m.
Hardy ran the white bath towel over his short, brown hair several times. The hot shower had done wonders for his tight muscles. The watery respite had also given him time to search his soul. He set the towel on the bathroom sink and peered at his reflection in the mirror. You have to come to grips with this Margaux thing. Making fists, he hunched forward, put his knuckles on the vanity and hung his head. There was nothing you could’ve done for her. She was dead as soon as that bullet struck her. He shut his eyes and let out a deep breath.
After another minute of deliberation, he secured the towel around his waist, grabbed a Glock 19—Ramirez had obtained Glocks for everyone—and left the bathroom. A split-second later, someone knocked on the door to the hotel room.
With the Glock hanging loosely at his side, he padded across the carpet, looked through the peephole, opened the door and walked back to the bed.
Dahlia ambled into the room and let the door close behind her.
He put the gun on the bed and turned toward her. “All right look, I—”
Her hand shot upward. “Let me go first.”
He nodded at her before sitting on the end of the bed and scratching his scalp.
“I came in here to talk to you…to apologize for what happened.” She approached him and jabbed a thumb to one side as if she was hitching a ride.
He made room for her on the bed. “I think I should be the one to apolog—”
“No, just stop.” She sat on his left, crossed one leg over the other and stared at the dark brown carpeting for a few seconds. “Cruz told me what’s going on with you. I get it now. I’m just not used to people caring about my welfare. I’ve been a…rogue operator as you put it…for so many, many years now that,” she bobbed her head before regarding him, “I’m not too quick to recognize when someone’s trying to look out for me.”
He smiled. “That’s all I was doing you know. I didn’t want to see you get snatched off the street…or worse.”
“I know.” She smiled back at him. “Thank you.” She paused. “And you were right on following orders. You are in charge on these missions. And…I need to start respecting that.”
With his thumb, Hardy caught a line of water running down his forehead. “I really hated pulling rank on you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the wall, envisioning Cruz and Charity on the other side. “All of us have become so close that I don’t see us as…simply co-workers. We’re,” he wiped water from his cheeks, “well, we’re a family.”
“That we are.”
“I’d fight for you like you were my sister.”
She recalled the conversation with her father in her Jeep…
The FBI Director stared through the windshield. “If your mother and I had had a second child, a boy,” Jameson glimpsed Dahlia, “well…” before going back to gazing at the traffic ahead of them.
She spied her dad out of the corner of her eye, her mind picturing her growing up with Hardy as her brother.
Dahlia nodded. “Me too.” A second later, she gave him a mischievous grin. “Are you crying?”
He whipped his head toward her. “What? No.” He ran his fingers over the towel and lifted an elbow toward the bathroom. “I just got out of the shower.”
“Yeah,” she winked at him, “sure. We’ll go with that.”
He let out a short laugh and listed her way, bumping into her shoulder and sending her scrambling to keep her balance. “Get out of here, so I can get dressed.”
“Is that an order?”
He half closed an eye at her.
She stood and headed for the door. “I’m going. I’m going.” Spinning around and walking backwards, she swung a finger back and forth between the two of them. “We cool?”
“Like I said…we’re family. Families don’t always get along, but they still stay together.”
She gave him two thumbs up, grabbed the door handle and stood there for a moment. “Hey Hardy?”
He looked up at her.
“Thanks for the birthday party. Dad told me it was your idea.”
Hardy half smiled. “I wanted to do something more elaborate, but the briefing and the subsequent mission—”
“No, it was perfect.” Dahlia stared at her footwear for several seconds. “Birthdays for me have been crap ever since…since…”
“I know. I’m sorry about your mother. I’m sure she was a great lady.”
Dahlia nodded. “Thank you. She was.”
“But then again, she had to be…”
Dahlia flicked her eyes his way.
“…to put up with,” he grinned, “you for all those years.”
A broad smile slowly consumed her face. “I’m mustering every ounce of restraint right now to keep from showing you,” she wagged her index finger at him, “one, specific finger of mine, you know that?”
Hardy sniggered and dipped his forehead toward the digit aimed his way. “I take it that’s not the one you mean?”
She shook her head, “No,” and opened the door.
Ramirez pushed by her. “We’ve got a problem.”
Leaping to his feet, Hardy glimpsed Cruz and Charity—on the heels of the CIA officer—before coming back to Ramirez. “What is it?”
“The CIA’s picked up chatter coming out of the Alejandro compound. Analysts believe they’re getting ready to move the hostages to another location.”
Hardy planted hands on his hips and looked away. “Damn it.” He gaped at the man. “How long ago?”
“Thirty minutes.”
Hardy found his phone. “We have to step things up.”
Cruz stepped closer to him. “What about the extraction plan? If we move up the operation, there’s no way the Minnesota can make the rendezvous point in time. They’re still several hours away.”
His fingers tapped his mobile’s screen. He spread them out over the glass surface, increasing the size of a map of the Caribbean. He scanned the area, gave Ramirez a quick look, “We still have our fishing boat lined up, right?” before going back to the digital map.
Ramirez nodded. “Of course, but—”
Hardy pointed at his cell. “Puerto Rico.” He righted his head and stared at the wall.
Her eyebrows turned downward, Dahlia glanced at her teammates and saw similar expressions on their faces. She cocked her head at him. “Hardy, how is Puerto Rico going to help us?”
He lifted a finger. “Give me a minute.” Bringing up his contact’s list, “We just…” he tapped a name, “need to…” and put the device to his ear, “take care of the last leg of the journey. And Puerto Rico is a U.S. territory with a—” he rotated the cell up to his mouth, “Director Jameson, it’s Hardy. We’ve run into a little snag with our extraction. I’ve got a new plan, but I’ll need your help to pull it off.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 11: Water Please
9:11 p.m. (Local Time)
Paris, France
Running his fingers through his curly black hair, Haziz strolled along Rue de la Roquette, one of the busiest streets in Paris. With each step he took, he bumped into someone. The dinner rush was underway, and if Parisians weren’t dining, they were on their way to their favorite restaurant.
After taking a long drag on a cigarette, Haziz dropped the short stub and stomped out the glowing red tip under his white tennis shoe as he took his next stride. He shoved fingers into the front pockets of his blue jeans and glanced up and down the crowded street, noticing a few pockets of space among the human herds.
He shuffled left, struggling to get out of the flow of traffic. A moment later, he slipped into a café, a block from where the Bastille once stood. The place was congested, but not filled to capacity. Spotting the small table he knew would be empty—since everyone wanted the private seating along the walls—Haziz slid the small backpack off his shoulder, claimed one of two chairs, and sat. He whipped his head left and right. More people entered the eatery.
“Bonjour.”
Scratching his beard, Haziz faced forward. On the other side of the table, he saw a striking, black-haired young woman in a short black skirt and white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. He glanced down and saw a thin strip of her white thighs between the skirt’s hem, and the edge of the tabletop.
“Je suis Chloé. Que puis-je vous obtenir, chérie — I’m Chloe. What can I get you, hon?” Holding a pad of paper in one hand, she waited, poised with a pen in the other.
He smiled at her, while his brain replayed her words. He had rehearsed for this moment. He licked his dry lips and gave her a slight wave of his hand. “De l'eau s'il vous plait. J'attends un ami — Water please. I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Une eau — One water.” Chloe stowed the pen and paper in a small apron around her waist. “Puis-je vous commencer avec un apéritif ... des bâtons de pain peut-être — Can I start you with an appetizer...breadsticks perhaps?”
Haziz felt his brown cheeks turning red. His chest tightened. He ran fingers over his forehead to catch a bead of sweat making its way down from his hairline. She was supposed to turn and walk away. He smiled again and quickly shook his head.
