5:49 p.m. (Local Time)
Stratford (a district of east London, England)
Four blocks away from Kimmler’s house, gathered at the back of a National Crime Agency tactical van, Hardy, Cruz, Hamilton and four members of an NCA elite unit—similar to an American SWAT team—stared at each other.
One foot on the bumper, Hardy rested his crossed forearms on the butt of the HK L85A2 rifle slung around his neck. “You know my preference. I say we go in hot. We don’t know what kind of resistance Kimmler is going to mount.”
Hamilton countered. “And, there are too many ways where going in hot could result in an innocent civilian being shot. I’m not willing to risk that happening.”
Hardy stood straight. “This is your op, Hamilton.” He motioned toward Cruz. “We’re the visiting team here, but,” he paused, “how about we compromise…muzzles up, fingers off the trigger.” He eyed the elite unit commander. The man nodded.
Hamilton squinted at Hardy and Cruz for several seconds before nodding. “I can live with that.” She pointed, “Commander, you and I will breach the front door,” before turning toward Hardy, “you and Cruz go in the back door. The rest of you will hang back and move in on my command only. Is that clear?”
The three men standing around their team leader nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She gripped her L85. “The four of us will be able to handle this…unless he’s got his own army in there.”
...
Down on one knee behind a row of shrubs at the back door, weapon up, Hardy scanned the back of the house. Flickering light poured out from a corner window to the right. A faint glow came from windows toward the center of the structure. He checked his watch—6:09 and fifty-four seconds. He looked across the back stairs. Cruz mirrored his stance at the end of another row of shrubs. Holding up five fingers, Hardy counted down. At two, he pointed at her and both of them rushed up the steps.
Hardy dropped to his knees and stuck two small picks into the lock.
“What are you doing? We’re supposed to wait for Hamilton to give the order.”
Hardy stowed the lock picks, turned the doorknob, but did not open the door. “We are waiting.”
From the front of the house: “Doctor Kimmler, this is the NCA. Open the door.”
“That sounded like an order to me.” He stormed the house—muzzle up and finger off the trigger as promised—swinging the rifle in all directions.
Cruz rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Why can’t you just follow instructions?” before entering the structure.
Hardy motioned left. Cruz went to the kitchen, while he cleared the living room.
Hamilton: “Knock it down, Commander.”
Hardy opened the front door. “Don’t shoot, Ellen. It’s me.”
Cruz: “Kitchen is clear…coming to you.”
Hamilton’s face darkened. “I told you to wait for my command.”
Hardy pivoted away from her. “Cruz and I have everything right. You two take the left.” He darted around a corner and headed down a hallway, Cruz a step behind. “First door’s yours, Cruz. I’ve got the last one.”
Cruz: “Copy that.”
Hamilton cleared the only room on the left, a bathroom. “Bathroom’s clear. Commander, you’re with Cruz. Hardy, I’m on your six.”
Hardy stood outside a closed door. The same flickering light escaped from the gap above the carpet. Noise came from a television—gunshots, screaming, yelling, squealing tires. Someone’s watching an action flick. He felt Hamilton’s presence behind and to his right.
Cruz: “First bedroom is clear. We’re approaching your position.”
Hardy reached for the doorknob. More gunshots interspersed the unmistakable rack of a shotgun. His pulse skyrocketed. That’s not the TV. “Gun!” He spun, “Cruz, stay back!” and tackled Hamilton. Before they hit the floor, the bedroom door splintered into a thousand pieces. Twelve-gauge double-aught buckshot penetrated the wall above Hardy and Hamilton’s heads.
The Commander leapt over the two on the floor and charged into the bedroom. “NCA, NCA—drop the weapon! Drop it now!”
Cruz knelt. “Hardy, are you okay? Hamilton?” She reached for him, but he jumped up.
“I’m good, Cruz. Hamilton, are you hit?”
“No extra holes that I’m aware of.” She stuck out a hand. “Help me up.”
Commander: “Down on your knees, hands on your head…do it now.”
When Hardy and the women were on their feet, he ran into the bedroom. On the opposite side of the bed, the Commander was clasping the second handcuff onto the wrist of a man, lying face down on the floor. The man was wearing light blue boxers and a white t-shirt.
Rushing forward, Hardy clamped hands around the man’s left arm and neck. In one swift and powerful motion, he threw Boxers onto the bed. The man’s head bounced off the mattress. “What the hell do you think you’re doing taking a shot at us?” Hardy made a fist, cocked his arm and took a step forward. The next thing he knew, he was flat against the wall.
The Commander had hands on Hardy’s chest and left arm. Hamilton restrained the other half of his body. Both were struggling to keep him pinned.
Hardy glimpsed his friend before turning and glaring at the man inches away from his face. Hardy’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “Let go of me.”
“I take orders,” he flicked his eyes, “from her…not you.”
“You’ll be taking your meals through a straw if you don’t let—”
“Hardy!”
He jerked his head toward the sound of his name. Cruz stood between Hamilton and the Commander, her face muscles taut. There was not a hint of levity about her. He stared at her. Stay out of this, Cruz.
“Calm down,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”
This is between—
Cruz winked at him.
Him…and…me… Hardy regarded her. Did she just… A moment later, he relaxed and stopped resisting. “I’m good now. Let me go.”
The tension drained from Cruz’s face, and she gave him a quick Mona Lisa smile.
Hardy straightened his clothing, “Everything’s fine,” and regarded Cruz. I didn’t think she’d use our sign so quickly. He nodded at her. “Thanks.”
Hamilton and her subordinate took a step backward. “Commander,” she said, “take the suspect to the living room. I need a word with Mr. Hardy.”