The President's Man by Alex Ander

Author:Alex Ander
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Alex Ander
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13: Farmhouse

5:16 p.m.; thirty-five minutes southeast of St. Petersburg, Russia

At one time, the old single-story farmhouse would have been attractive. Centered on several acres of rich farmland, the house would have sheltered families from the brutal Russian winters, while the land would have provided food. The dwelling was situated at the base of a sloping hill. There was a grove of trees at the top of the hill; oaks and pines, among others, standing guard for more than a century.

The structure was in a state of disrepair. The chimney was missing so many bricks that light passed through it. The wooden siding was rotted and many pieces had been blown away. Even the wraparound porch had not escaped the effects of the elements. The handrail was loose; large sections were missing. The floorboards were in place, but they were splintered and rough. Having long been abandoned, the farmhouse had stood its ground in silence, until three days ago when several men showed up.

On the other side of the hill, just past the stand of trees, a small SUV was parked near the edge of the tree line. Natasha gazed through the windshield of her Patriot. “The house is just over that hill.” She checked the time on her cell phone. “Victor will be here soon.” Exiting the SUV, she closed the door and climbed into the backseat. Once the door was shut, she drove her knees into the seat cushion and leaned into the luggage compartment.

With her back to him, Hardy saw her hauling items from the compartment and tossing them onto the seat; some fell onto the floor. He looked closer and noticed a bulletproof vest, a pair of black tactical pants and a pair of six-inch boots. He did not recognize the name on the items—everything was in Russian—but he could see they were of similar quality to the gear he used. Hardy flicked his eyes to the right; they opened wider.

Still on her knees and facing away from him, Natasha had removed her long blazer, kicked off her shoes and pushed her jeans to her knees. Only a couple of feet away from Hardy’s face, a pair of white lace-trimmed bikini underwear separated him from her butt. She spun around, plopped onto the seat and wiggled out of the jeans. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hardy whip his head away from her.

Sitting on the seat, wearing only her underwear and a short sleeve camisole, she smiled and realized he must have gotten an eyeful. Her mind had been so focused on getting into her tactical clothing she had forgotten there was another person in the vehicle. She buttoned her pants and shirt. “It’s all right. We’re both adults. I don’t have anything you haven’t already seen.”

“I’m sorry. I was just admiring your,” Hardy shut his eyes and winced—bad choice of words—“looking at your tactical gear.”

Pulling on her boots and slipping into the bulletproof vest, she grinned. “Tactical gear, huh? Is that what

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