8:46 p.m.
Aaron Hardy walked down 41st Street, admiring the Federal Reserve Building on his left. It was good to be back on American soil, taking in the sights of Washington D.C. He was on his way to the restaurant to meet his entire team for drinks. In a few hours, Hardy would turn thirty and his team was determined to celebrate this birthday milestone. After the mission in Nigeria, everyone was excited to get out and blow off a little steam. The restaurant of choice was The Ole Town Tavern, a small well-known tavern in the Downtown District of D.C. Its roots went back to the turn of the twentieth century. Arguably, the restaurant had the best-fried shrimp on the East Coast.
Hardy tugged on the handle of the heavy glass door and stepped inside. The noise of a raucous crowd greeted him. He was immersed in the atmosphere of patrons mixing food, alcohol and sports. The place was packed with people cheering for their favorite team and downing a few too many beers. Hardy sidestepped servers and squeezed between tables, heading for the back of the building, where his team had reserved a small room.
Hardy entered and an ovation of applause erupted from his men. He saw several empty beer bottles on the table. They had a head start on him. He took off his jacket and placed it on the back of an open chair. After listening to several good-natured comments about his age and being told the next round of drinks was on him, he left to find the men’s room. Halfway down a narrow and dimly lit hallway, he stepped aside and let two young women pass. He nodded his head and both women gave him a flirtatious smile. His cell phone rang. Connecting the call, he watched the women, who had cranked their heads around for another glance.
“Hello, this is Hardy. Hello?” The voice on the line was barely audible. Something happened with the game on the television and the people clapped and screamed. “Hold on a second.” He found a nearby door at the back of the restaurant and slipped outside. As the door was shutting behind him, he went back to the caller. “Okay, this is Hardy. Who’s—” Hardy never finished his sentence. The restaurant behind him blew apart, sending fragments of glass and brick flying through the air. The force of the explosion threw open the closing door, which slammed into his back. His head rocked backwards and bounced off the door before his body was thrown more than ten feet, landing near a metal dumpster. Rolling onto his side, he saw flames shooting out of the upper windows. The heat from the fire singed the hairs on his arms. He crawled behind the dumpster, which gave him some protection. Lying on his back, the last thing he saw was the night sky and a full moon before a secondary explosion pushed the dumpster—and Hardy—further away from the building.