Hardy’s peripheral vision caught sight of the muzzle of a pistol above the top step of the staircase leading to the main level. One of Tucker’s men had gone undetected and was coming up the steps. Hardy spun away from the weapon before he saw the muzzle flash. Hitting the floor at the foot of the bed, he felt a burning sensation in his left shoulder. He twisted his body and crawled to the corner of the bed. The guard’s head appeared above the floor. Hardy stuck his rifle between the bottom of the bedframe and the floor. His right forefinger, curled around the rifle’s trigger, twitched three times. Three bullet holes opened on the guard’s head and neck, felling him. The body slid down a step and came to a halt.
Hardy jumped to his feet and swung the rifle toward Tucker, but he was gone. The only other way out was through the sliding glass door. Hardy ran outside and raced down the steps leading to the dirt path, swapping out the magazines of his MP5. Landing on the third step from the bottom, he leapt and was on the run as soon as his boots hit the dirt. He reached for his NVG’s, but his hand came up empty. He was sure he stowed them before entering the cabin. He must have lost them when he dropped to the floor. He activated the Surefire flashlight attached to his rifle. He would have to find Tucker the old-fashioned way.
The burning sensation in Hardy’s shoulder intensified. He swiped his right hand across the area. Rubbing his fingers together, he felt a sticky wetness—blood. He could not feel an entry wound, so the bullet must have cut his skin.
Hardy moved down the path, swinging the rifle from left to right and back again. When he reached the bottom, he lit up the shoreline with the flashlight. Tucker was nowhere to be found. There was no way he had made it this far. Hardy wheeled around and went back the way he had come. Tucker might have gone around to the front of the cabin. Hardy advanced a few feet. Feeling a presence behind him, he stopped. Before he could address the threat with the rifle, a heavy object struck him in the back of the head. Stars danced in his vision, but they were not the ones from the night sky. His legs buckled and he collapsed, falling to his knees before landing face first on a bed of fallen tree needles. The scent of pine filled his nostrils. He never lost consciousness, but a full minute passed before he regained his senses and got to his knees. He heard a voice behind him.
“That’s far enough.” It was Tucker.
Hardy cranked his head around to see the man pointing Hardy’s MP5 at his head. He was at a disadvantage, disarmed and in an execution-style position.
“Stay right where you are. This will be over soon.”
With his back to his adversary, Hardy’s torso was rotated slightly to the left. Tucker could not see Hardy’s right hand. Hardy eased the hand closer to his body and the knife he had on his vest. He could see Tucker aligning the sights of the rifle with Hardy’s face. Hardy wrapped his fingers around the handle of the knife, flexing the muscles in his right arm. Before he could act, bright lights shone on the two of them. The men appeared to be two actors in a play.
“FBI—Drop the weapon! Drop the weapon! Drop it now!” shouted the members of the FBI SWAT team, positioned in front of Hardy, ten meters up the path. In the light beams, Hardy saw Tucker’s eyes. He was not going to drop the rifle. The FBI’s rules of engagement were most likely ‘fire only if fired upon.’ Hardy could not let Tucker start the shooting, especially while he was staring down the muzzle of the MP5.
Hardy ripped the knife from his vest, pivoted to the right and threw the knife at Tucker. As soon as the tip of the blade entered the man’s right pectoral muscle, he fired the rifle, sending rounds into the ground where Hardy had been kneeling.
With Tucker fulfilling his part of the rules of engagement, the SWAT team carried out their part, returning fire and perforating the man’s body with nine-millimeter bullets. He took three steps backward and fell on his back. The rifle in his hands sounded once more. After that, the only noise heard was the pounding of combat boots on the hardened earth. With their rifles trained on Tucker, the SWAT team moved forward, bypassing Hardy. They had orders not to touch him. One operative kicked the rifle away from Tucker, while a second removed the pistol from the waistband of Tucker’s sweat pants. A third SWAT team member rolled the body over and handcuffed him. Even though the man was probably dead, the action was necessary to ensure the safety of the team.
Sitting in the brush and leaning against a tree, Hardy watched the action. His peripheral vision caught sight of a fourth member of the team. This one had a slender frame and moved differently. Before the person had knelt in front of him, Hardy sensed the person was a woman, sensed it was Cruz.
Special Agent Cruz carried a rifle and had the same clothes on from earlier, exchanging her blazer for a bulletproof vest with the letters FBI on it. The beam of her flashlight lit up the blood on his shirt. “Hardy, are you hurt?” Slinging the rifle behind her, she examined the wound.
Hardy glanced at his shoulder. “I’m all right. The bullet only sliced me.” Bringing his attention back to her, he added, “What are you doing here, Cruz? I thought you said you never wanted to see me again.”
Cruz called out to the nearest SWAT member and motioned for him. “No, I said I hoped we never met again.” After taking the SWAT member’s medical pack, she flashed her eyes toward Hardy and grinned. “I never said I didn’t want to see you again.” She dressed the wound, and applied a bandage, while telling him what took place after he had taken her home.
Director Jameson had secured search warrants for both The Tucker Group and Senator Hastings’ office. After the SWAT team had raided The Tucker Group and gathered enough evidence against Hastings, the second SWAT team moved in and arrested Hastings at his home.
“Were you there to take him down?”
Cruz shook her head. “I couldn’t be in two places at once. I had to be here to pull your butt out of the fire.” She smiled and winked at him.
Hardy laughed. It was good to know she had a sense of humor. He had not seen that side of her. He was glad she was there. She had saved his life.
Cruz stood and held out her hand. “Come on, let’s get going.”
He took her hand and pushed himself away from the ground. Getting to his feet, he felt a rush of blood to his head and his legs wobbled. He staggered and took a giant step toward Cruz. She clutched his waist to stabilize him. Hardy wrapped his right arm around her shoulder.
“Easy now,” she said.
“I’m okay. I just need a minute.”
For a few moments, they stood there, not saying anything. Hardy was trying to regain his balance, enjoying the touch of Cruz’s body. Secretly, he wanted it to last a little longer.
“Listen, Hardy,” Cruz tilted her head back, her right hand on his chest, “I know this isn’t exactly how you wanted this to go down, but we got them. Hastings is going to jail and The Tucker Group will be dismantled. I promise you that everyone involved in the deaths of your team members will be brought to justice. You have my word.”
In that moment, Hardy knew he wanted to see more of this woman. Moving up the path, he stopped and looked at her. “What time is it, Cruz?”
She checked her watch. “It’s almost Midnight—11:43 to be exact.” Thinking that was an odd question to ask at a time like this, she said, “Why? You got a hot date or something?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know…maybe.” They picked up their pace again. “Since it’s still my birthday for the next…seventeen minutes…would you like to have a drink with me?”
Her head down, arm in arm with him, Cruz smiled. “I’d love to. The first round’s on me.” They took a few more steps and she looked at him. “Happy Birthday, Hardy.”