January 23rd; 6:38 p.m.
Washington, D.C.
“Someone’s in my house.” Jameson killed the car’s engine, unbuckled his safety belt and grabbed the gun on his hip. “Call 911.” He shouldered open the door. “I’m going to check things out.”
Dahlia put a hand on his forearm. “Dad, put your gun away. It’s not what you think.” An unconvinced look from her father prompted her to offer assurances. “Trust me. You won’t need your sidearm.” She climbed out of the sedan, shut the door and headed for the front of the house, Jameson meeting her at the front bumper. Stopping on the porch, she faced him. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Hardy you drew your weapon.” Jameson frowned. “Just don’t. His ego’s big enough already.” Dahlia and Jameson entered the man’s house.
“Happy Birthday!” said Hardy, Cruz and Charity.
Jameson went from his daughter to his guests and back again. “This is why you suddenly didn’t feel like going out for dinner,” he paused, “after we had driven around for an hour.”
Dahlia removed her coat, revealing a red, long-sleeved knee-length dress and black knee boots. “I had the mission’s most important job of all,” she hung the garment on a coat rack, “getting you out of the house, so they could set up everything.”
Wearing a black dress and heels, Cruz hugged her boss, “Happy Birthday, sir,” and kissed him on the cheek.
Dressed similar to Cruz, Charity was right behind the other woman. “Happy Birthday, sir.”
“Thank you…both of you. I’m…I don’t know what to say.”
Hardy stepped forward. Kicking his attire up a notch for the occasion, he wore a white open-collared shirt under a dark sport coat with the usual blue jeans and black A.T.A.C. shoes. “Happy Birthday, sir.” He and Jameson shook hands.
“Thank you,” he glanced at Cruz and Charity, “but my birthday was two weeks ago.”
“Yes,” said Cruz, “but two weeks ago we were in training…and then the mission came up, so…” she bobbed her head, “we know it’s late, but we weren’t going to let the occasion just slide by. We had to do something.”
A thin line formed on his face, the closest thing to a smile anyone had seen from the FBI Director. “Thank you…all of you…this means a lot to me.”
Everyone waited for more, possibly a short speech, but the man was not one for speeches.
After an awkward silence, Cruz took him by the arm, “Come on. Let’s get a drink in your hand,” and led him into the kitchen. Charity followed.
Hardy regarded Dahlia, a twinkle in his eye. “So?”
She smoothed her dress. “So what?”
Hardy’s broad smile lit up the house. “Did he do it? Did he draw his gun?”
Dahlia stood straight, stared at him and sighed. “Yes, he did. Are you happy now?”
Hardy pumped a fist. “I knew it. I told you a traditional ‘turn on the lights, jump out and yell surprise’ birthday party was a good way for us to get shot.”
She smiled and shook her head at a grown man acting like a kid. “And, that would’ve been bad,” she waited a beat, “for Cruz and Cherry.”
Hardy and Dahlia made their way to the kitchen. “Don’t be such a sore loser, Dahlia. That look is unbecoming on you.” He picked up a set of tongs and smacked them together. “I need to check on the steaks.”
“Sore loser?” She snatched the tool from his hand and cocked her arm. “Here, let me give you a hand with those steaks.”
Jameson watched the two of them slip out through the patio door, his daughter taking swings at his top agent. Like a father watching his children play in the yard, Jameson smiled to himself.
… … … … …
Hardy cupped Cruz’s knee under the table. He loved the feel of her nylons. “I call it Hardy Bread.”
Charity took another bite of the thin, but dense piece of bread and stared across the table at Cruz.
Cruz made a face and shook her head. “He has to name everything.” She glimpsed her man and smiled. “I’ve learned to let him have his fun. It’s easier that way.”
“Oh really…” Hardy slid his hand—and the dress—up her leg. She stiffened and drew in a short breath, flashing him a ‘don’t you dare’ look. “So, you’re patronizing me, huh?”
“I’m curious, Hardy,” said Charity, saving Cruz from having to answer and stopping his hand. “What’s in it?”
After wiping the devilish grin from his face, he said to Charity, “One cup barley flour, one cup milk, an eighth of a teaspoon of salt and a tablespoon of melted butter.” He motioned. “Mix everything together and pour it into a cake pan. Put the pan in the oven at four hundred and twenty-five degrees, and twelve minutes later…boom…you’ve got Hardy Bread.”
Jameson held out his plate. “I like it. I’ll have another piece.”
“Good choice, sir.” Hardy fulfilled the man’s request.
“Not so fast.” Dahlia grabbed her father’s plate. “It’s time for some words, a speech.”
Knowing Jameson’s embodiment of the strong-but-silent type, no one seconded her motion.
“You know what?” The man stood. “You’re right. It’s time I told you people what I really think of you,” he turned to his left, “starting with you my dear daughter.
“Words alone cannot express how happy I am that you’re back in my life. Every time I see you, I see your mother. May she rest in peace.” Mrs. Jameson had died after a long fight with cancer.
Dahlia dropped her head and swallowed hard. When she needed me most, I wasn’t… She dabbed her eyes with a napkin and took a drink of water. Setting down the glass, Dahlia willed herself to look at her father.
“She loved you, sweetheart, and she never blamed you…for anything.” He paused. “And, I know she’d be happy that we’re back together again.”
A thin smile coupled a shaky voice. “Thanks Dad.”
Jameson focused on Charity. “Cherry, every day you’re getting stronger and stronger. I don’t think any of us fully understand what you’re capable of doing. I think back on when I first met you, a shy and tentative and dare I say awkward girl.” Observing the table, he shook his head. “I see what you’ve become in such a short time, and I’m extremely pleased you decided to come to work for me. Thank you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Charity, her cheeks flushed.
Jameson continued the clockwise circle and came to Cruz. He stared for several seconds. “Special Agent Cruz, you are a talented agent, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. You’re able to bring the hammer when necessary,” Cruz’s coworkers chuckled, “then immediately lend a shoulder to cry on or say a prayer.” Hardy, Dahlia and Charity nodded. “You are quite literally the heart and soul of this team, and I’m proud to call you my friend.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And, I want you to know that the card you gave me last year for my birthday is still on my desk.” Cruz had discovered January 9th was her boss’s birthday, an occasion he had kept hidden, since he was not someone who wanted the attention. After a brief meeting with him, she had slipped a card onto his desk and walked away.
Jameson turned his head to the right and studied the last member of the team. “And then there’s you, Mr. Hardy.”
Dahlia waved a hand, dismissively. “You can just skip over him, since it’ll probably be tough to find something nice to say.”
Hardy kicked the shaft of Dahlia’s boot under the table, not hard, but hard enough to cause her to flinch. “It’s not polite to interrupt your father, Dahlia.” He eyed Jameson. “Please continue, sir.” The truth was Hardy wanted to know what the man had to say about him. Though the two had worked together for more than six months, Jameson—and the man’s thoughts of Hardy—was still a mystery to him.
Jameson picked up his wine glass. “When the President told me he wanted to start a secret campaign, secret war on terror, and that,” he pointed, “you were going to be the centerpiece, and I was going to lead you…well let’s just say I was less than thrilled with the idea. I had already spent enough time training and working with young agents at the academy in Quantico. At age fifty, my patience with young bucks with,” he paused, “brain power that didn’t match up with their physical strength, had eroded.
“After that first mission to Russia…well, I thought you were either going to burn out or tick off someone high up on the food chain, and that would be the last of you.”
His shoulders slumping, Hardy pursed his lips. Maybe Dahlia was right. He should’ve just skipped over me.
“But slowly,” continued Jameson, “I came to see something in you. You were—and in many ways still are—very rough around the edges. On a deeper level, however, burns a fire, a passion for this country that I haven’t seen in very many agents during my time with the FBI. Perhaps, that’s because of your military background. But, I suspect the real reason stems from who you are at your core. Your patriotism is certainly without question, but I’m talking more about your character…who you are as a person.” Jameson gave his agent a hard glare. “Hardy, you’ve been a royal pain in my…” the women held their collective breaths, “but you’re worth every bit of it.” The women exhaled.
His mouth agape, Hardy gawked at his boss. He slowly shook his head and expressed gratitude with a questioning tone. “Thank you?”
“No…thank you…for your service and for giving me hope that truly good men still exist.” A moment passed. “With that being said, if any of you screw up or slack off, I’ll still do my job and come down hard on you.”
Everyone laughed before Hardy said, “We wouldn’t have it any other way, sir.”
The director held up the goblet and regarded each woman. “To this team,” everyone stood and raised a glass before Jameson came to Hardy, “and to many years and many more successful missions ahead of us.”
Hardy, Cruz, Dahlia, Charity and Jameson clinked glasses and drank to the toast.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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