January 20th; 10:13 a.m. (Local Time)
London, England
Heathrow Airport
Two Gulfstream V jets had taken off from Joint Base Andrews in Washington, D.C. at 10 p.m. the day before; one destination was Munich Airport in Germany, the other endpoint was London’s Heathrow. Dahlia and Charity still had another hour in the air when Hardy and Cruz’s plane touched down and rolled to a stop at a hangar at the far end of the complex. A late model black four-door Nissan Rogue Sport with black custom rims was parked a short distance away. A slim woman—six-foot in heels—leaned against the passenger door, arms and ankles crossed. Her long, dark and straight hair swirled around her head from the gusty winds.
Hardy led Cruz across the tarmac, his and Cruz’s bag slung over his shoulders. Their garb was black leather jackets, blue jeans and boots; Cruz’s rose to her knees and sported two-inch heels, while Hardy’s were six-inch A.T.A.C.’s from 5.11 Tactical. Black was the shared color. His smile broadened the closer he got to the woman, who had pushed herself away from the vehicle and was approaching. The three met ten feet from the front bumper.
“It’s good to see you,” said Ellen Hamilton, “but I wish it was under better circumstances.”
Hardy shrugged off the bags and the two hugged. “It’s good to see you too.” He stepped away and looked at her—dark eyebrows, piercing brown eyes with long lashes, and smooth cheeks. “I take it you’re back to a hundred percent?”
She nodded. “A hundred and ten percent.” The last time he had seen her, she was recuperating from a serious, work-related injury.
At thirty-five, Hamilton was an NCA officer (National Crime Agency—Britain’s closest version of America’s Federal Bureau of Investigation) and held the powers of constable, customs officer and immigration officer. This combination was known in law enforcement circles as “Triple Warranted” or “Tri Powers.”
She had ten-plus years of law enforcement experience, and was one of the first officers of the National Crime Agency, created a few years ago. Tough, smart and dedicated, she pursued leads and tracked down criminals better than many of the men in her field.
Hardy smiled. “That’s great to hear.” He pivoted and put a hand on Cruz’s back. “This is Special Agent DelaCruz of the FBI.” He glanced at Cruz. “Meet Ellen Hamilton. She’s with the National Crime Agency. We worked together back in July.” He smiled at England’s finest. “She’s one of the good ones.”
Cheeks rosy, Hamilton waved him off and stepped forward. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent DelaCruz.”
Smiling, Cruz shook hands with the woman. “Likewise, and call me Cruz.”
Hamilton spun around and held up a key fob. “Throw your gear in the back,” the tailgate of the Rogue slowly lifted, “and we’ll get going. There’s been a slight change in plans, but I don’t think you’ll mind when we reach our destination.”
… … … … …
“We’re rolling up on the scene now.” Hamilton held a phone to an ear with one hand and rotated the steering wheel with the other. “I’ll be going in with two foreign agents. You’ll lead the second team.” She paused. “Has there been any activity in the last thirty minutes?” She spun the wheel back, touched the brakes, shifted to ‘park’ and killed the engine. “Okay…okay, get your men ready. We go in twenty.” She stowed the mobile in a blazer pocket.
Hardy rested forearms on the front seats and leaned between the two. He looked right, at Hamilton. “What’s happening?”
She gave him and Cruz the short version. They were going to breach a two-story building around the corner. The people suspected of stealing the Anthrax vials from the German company were reported to be inside. While Hardy and Cruz were in the air, Hamilton had put together the raid.
Hardy nodded. “I’m glad you waited for us.”
Hamilton pulled on the door handle. “Well, any longer and I would have been forced to go in without you.”
“Understood.”
Cruz twirled a finger among the three of them. “What about the virus…and us?”
Hamilton shouldered open the door and eyed the passenger, “We’ve got suits,” before tipping her head. “Let’s go.”
… … … … …
Twenty minutes later, dressed in hazmat suits, bullpup 5.56x45 mm HK L85A2 Assault Rifles slung around their necks, Hardy, Cruz and Hamilton rode in the back of a van. Since the bright yellow suits might tipoff the suspects, the plan was to go in hard and fast once the van’s tires screeched to a halt and the doors slid open. A second team would breach the upper level of the structure and clear that floor.
Sitting to Cruz’s right and kitty corner from Hardy, Hamilton spied him and recalled their last mission. “Hey…Sheriff Stone…just so you know not everyone has to be shot. It would be nice to have someone left alive to question in case the virus is not in the building.”
Hardy turned his head toward her. “Did you just reference a character from an American movie?”
“Seriously, that’s what you took from that?”
“I didn’t know you were a John Walter fan.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve seen Terrible Twosome half a dozen times.” She let the L85 hang and made two pistols with her fingers. “I’ll plug you myself you son of a—”
Before Hardy had a chance to laugh at the famous line from the 1950’s Western, everyone’s earpiece crackled. “Twenty seconds…twenty seconds out.”
Hamilton clutched her rifle.
Hardy squeezed the pistol grip a little tighter and glimpsed Cruz. Her eyes were wide and a couple beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. It was warm under the hazmat suits, but not that warm. In fifteen seconds, she would be storming the structure, much like what happened back in Virginia, at the training facility. Jameson’s words sounded in Hardy’s mind. Keep her safe. He pointed at Cruz and gave her the thumbs up.
She hesitated. Her chest rose and fell before she gave him a single nod and returned his gesture.
Hardy smiled and winked at her at the same time Hamilton smacked his knee. He turned.
“My op…me first.”
He affirmed.
Five seconds later, Hamilton threw open the side door. A man sitting to Hardy’s left, not wearing a yellow suit, jumped out of the van and raced to the front door. He swung a battering ram and hit the space above the doorknob. The door rocketed inward, and he retreated.
Hamilton ran inside. “Team One is inside. Team Two, what’s your status?”
“Team Two has entered the structure…commencing search—over.”
The main floor of the building was a wide-open space. Cardboard boxes on pallets made two lines down the length. The base of a metal staircase was to the right, fifty feet away. Overhead shop lights hung from the rafters, but sunlight pouring in from the windows lit the area.
Hamilton cleared a small office to the left and spoke under her breath. “I’m going left.” She motioned. “Hardy…you take the middle. Cruz, go right.”
Hardy: “Copy that.”
Cruz: “Copy that.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hardy saw Hamilton disappear around the last pallet before he fast walked toward the other end of the warehouse. Boxes were stacked six-feet high on either side. Gaps opened at periodic intervals. Swinging the rifle left and right, up and down, he traversed half the distance. Coming to a gap, he pivoted left and brought the weapon on target, the chest of Hamilton. He was staring down her rifle’s muzzle. After a split-second, recognition set in, and both of them continued down their aisles.
Cruz’s low voice: “I’ve got contact…stairs…second level.”
Hardy turned right and slipped between two large wooden crates. Peeking out, he cleared the area to the left and double backed toward Cruz’s position. Shouts filled his ear.
Cruz: “Stop right there! Hands—show me your hands!”
An image flashed across Hardy’s mind; the monitor inside the control room at the training facility. He double-timed it.
… … … … …
Cruz stood at the base of the stairs, one eye staring into the red dot sight atop the L85, the other searching for a weapon on the man beginning his descent. “I’ve got contact…stairs…second level.” The thobe-clad man turned his head and saw her. “Stop right there! Hands—show me your hands!”
The Middle Eastern man dashed down the stairs, either not understanding her or not caring. His left hand slid along the handrail; the right was behind his back.
Cruz’s right forearm tightened when he hit the midway point. Her finger slipped inside the trigger guard. “Freeze,” she shouted. “Show me your hands.” A bead of sweat ran down her temple. She swallowed, closed the left eye and focused on the sight picture. Warm air fogged the lower part of the facemask. Her heart pounded. She centered the red dot on the man’s center of mass and touched the trigger. He folded in half, clutched his knee and tumbled down the stairs.
Cruz backpedaled, the L85’s muzzle following the rolling man. He stopped six steps from the bottom, yelling and holding a knee in both hands.
… … … … …
Hardy pulled up short and raised the bullpup to the left. A Middle Eastern man, dressed in a dark thobe, ran down the stairs. Hardy flicked his eyes right. The man was heading straight for Cruz, who had her rifle pointed at him. Hardy glimpsed the man’s hands. The left one was out of sight. The right one grasped a black object behind his back. He spied Cruz, the man, Cruz. Screw this. He lowered the L85’s muzzle a hair and pressed the trigger. The man doubled over and toppled down the stairs.
Hardy ran forward. “Target is down. I repeat…target is down.” He trained his weapon on the man and looked at Cruz. “You okay?” Her gaze went back and forth a couple times from him to the screaming suspect before she nodded. “Cruz and Hardy are good. Hamilton, what’s your status—over?”
Hamilton: “I’m coming up on your six. Main level is clear—over.”
Hardy whirled around and saw her jogging up the aisle.
Team Two Leader: “This is Team Two. The upper level is clear—over.”
“Copy that,” said Hamilton. “All units, the building’s secure. Bring in the HazMat Team.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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