Against All Odds Page 13

“No. And there was more to the message. According to the terrorists, the next time they target his daughter, the blood will be hers.”

  A knot formed in Coop’s stomach.

  “Run me through the security protocol there.”

  At Les’s gruff, clipped command, Coop swung his legs to the floor and forced himself to focus on tactical issues.

  “I checked out the command center in the guest cottage after we talked earlier. The video feed from the two security cameras is good, and the agents on perimeter duty are wearing night-vision goggles. We have one man continuously patrolling each side. They’re checking in with the command center every twenty minutes.”

  “How about the house itself?”

  “The security system is adequate. We have it activated for all doors, and only the four HRT operators have the access code. If an outside door is opened anywhere in the house, the alarm sounds and the command center is alerted. That’s been tested. Mac and Rick are on duty tonight.”

  Silence. Coop figured Les’s cigar-of-the-day had to be a soggy mess by now.

  “Okay. It sounds like everything is covered. We have an 8:30 conference call tomorrow with the lab here and the ERT from Richmond. They promised to have some answers about what happened at Ms. Callahan’s house. I want you and Mark both on the line. Where is she now?”

  “In bed.”

  “Stick close.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  As Les severed the connection, Coop set his BlackBerry back on the nightstand and stretched out again. Like all HRT operators, he’d learned to grab sleep on a job whenever the opportunity presented itself. To turn the “alert” mechanism in his brain down to idle, ready to kick in again at a moment’s notice but low enough to give his body the rest it needed to function at optimal efficiency.

  Tonight, however, sleep eluded him. He should be tired enough to drift off, he reflected. It had been a long, stressful day. And there was plenty of security in place. Monica was safe.

  But he couldn’t get the terrorists’ warning out of his mind.

  Next time, the blood will be hers.

  “The message has been delivered to David Callahan. The clock is ticking.” Tariq took a sip of hot tea, trying to dispel the evening chill, and adjusted the cell phone on his ear. “If we do not get a response within eighteen hours, you will take the next step. Have you located Ms. Callahan?”

  “Yes. It was not difficult.”

  Nouri’s dismissive response didn’t fool Tariq. Finding a woman the FBI didn’t want found would be an impossible challenge for most people. It had been easy for Nouri only because he was good. Very good, Tariq amended, pleased he’d chosen his nephew to manage the U.S. component of his plan. Karim would be proud of his son. Nouri’s hate for the Americans, whose bombs had killed his father, exceeded even Tariq’s. And hate was a powerful motivator.

  “How did you manage it?” In general, Tariq asked few questions about Nouri’s methodology. He knew the man had planned for any contingency, was even prepared to pilot a rented plane in case Monica Callahan was spirited away to some remote location. And he respected his nephew’s technical expertise, was impressed by the network of sources he’d cultivated. But beating the FBI was tough. While Tariq had never doubted Nouri’s ability to find the diplomat’s daughter, he was curious how the man had accomplished it.

  “We concealed motion-activated GPS tracking devices in the luggage of the HRT operators when they were away from their hotel. They arrived at their ‘safe’ house twelve hours ago.”

  Tariq’s lips twisted into an appreciative smile at Nouri’s mocking humor. And at the irony that the very men charged with protecting the woman had led his nephew straight to her. “What about the defenses there?”

  “I’ve already hacked into the security system. I’m looking at a feed from the security cameras as we speak. The perimeter is patrolled. There are two agents in the house at all times.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have the appropriate resources?”

  “Yes. Zahir and I will handle this alone, and we are well equipped.”

  “Good luck. I will be in touch.”

  As Tariq slid his cell phone into the pocket of his robe, he shivered and eyed the sleeping mat on the floor with distaste. Once he was prone, the chill in the room would seep into his pores. But he needed to rest. There was much to do in the next two days.

  And after that, he would leave this hovel and move to more comfortable quarters. Because before he was through, the ransom would be paid.

  With or without David Callahan’s help.

  Tariq knew that once he began killing hostages, the U.S. would find some clandestine way to meet his demands. The American people had no stomach for watching innocent civilians die.

  It was a weakness he intended to use to his advantage.

  “I found your care package outside my door.”

  Turning from the coffeemaker, Coop smiled at Monica. She was dressed in a new pair of jeans and a long-sleeved pink shirt, and she was holding a large bag of M&Ms.

  “Everything fit okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  He gave her trim figure a quick, appreciative sweep. Perfect was a good word for it. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks, I will. However, I don’t remember putting these on my ‘necessities’ list.” She hefted the bag.

  “After everything that happened yesterday, I decided comfort food qualified for that designation.”

  Her smile softened. “Thanks. I’ve already dipped in.”

  “Before breakfast?” He arched a brow in mock horror.

  “Chocolate gets top billing any time of day in my book.”

  Chuckling, he gestured toward a large white bakery box on the counter beside a half-empty coffeepot. “I don’t think that stuff is any healthier, but help yourself. You’ll also find eggs, milk, butter, juice, and English muffins in the fridge.”

  “Where’s Mark?” She wandered over to inspect the bakery box, still clutching her M&Ms.

  “On his laptop in the office.”

  “I see you guys already ate.” She surveyed the few remaining pastries and selected a caramel pecan Danish. Plopping it on a disposable plate, she headed for the refrigerator.

  “An hour ago.”

  “Want some scrambled eggs?”

  “Are you offering to cook?”

  “Why not? I don’t have anything else to do.”

  And cooking helped her deal with stress, Coop reminded himself, noting her death grip on the M&Ms. “Sure.”

  “How about Mark?”

  “How about Mark what?” The other agent appeared in the kitchen holding an empty coffee mug.

  “Would you like some scrambled eggs?”

  “I could be persuaded.”

  “The man has a tapeworm, if you ask me.” Coop flicked a wry grin his way.

  “Not true. But I’ve sampled Monica’s cooking, and I never pass up a well-prepared meal.”

  “I can’t promise much this morning,” she warned. “There’s not a whole lot here to work with.” She released her hold on the bag of M&Ms, setting them on the counter as she inspected the scant contents of the fridge.

  “Trust me. Whatever you make will be far better than anything I’ve eaten so far today. I’ve already ingested my allotment of donuts for the week,” Mark reassured her with a grin, refilling his mug.

  On his way out of the kitchen he flipped on another light, and Monica sent him a grateful look as she dropped some English muffins in the toaster. “Thanks. It was feeling pretty dingy in here.” Once again all of the shades, drapes, and blinds had been drawn, and though she could see sun peeking around the edges of the windows it wasn’t enough to dispel the gloom lurking inside. After all of this was over, she was going to head somewhere warm and sunny for a week or two, she resolved, breaking eggs into a bowl.

  “A penny for them.”

  Turning, she found Coop watchi
ng her, one hip propped against the counter as he sipped his coffee. Today he wore jeans and a blue oxford shirt that revealed a faint sprinkling of dark hair in the hollow at the base of his throat. While she couldn’t fault his attractiveness in a suit, she decided the more casual attire enhanced his rugged masculinity and appeal. How many hearts had he broken? she wondered.

  “Monica?”

  Her cheeks grew warm and she angled away to pour the whisked eggs into a pan of sizzling butter. She wouldn’t reveal that last thought for a million dollars, let alone a penny! “I was thinking about white sand and palm trees and sunshine. That’s where I’m going for some R&R after this nightmare ends. I plan to live in my swimsuit for at least a week on a tropical island. Do you like the beach?”

  When he didn’t respond, Monica risked a peek at him. At his speculative expression—and the sudden banked fire in his eyes—her breath caught in her throat.

  As their gazes locked, his demeanor went from intimate to impersonal in a heartbeat. “Sure.” Pushing off from the counter, he set his cup on the table. “How can I help with breakfast?”

  “Just let Mark know it’s ready, okay?”

  He disappeared down the hall, and Monica ladled the eggs over the toasted muffins, trying to regroup. She wasn’t sure what had just happened here. But she did know one thing.

  She’d have gladly paid far more than a penny for his thoughts.

  “Great breakfast, Monica.” Mark wiped his lips on a napkin. “Best scrambled eggs I ever had.”

  “I second that,” Coop added.

  As Monica murmured a thank-you, she noted the men had cleaned their plates—reinforcing their image as stereotypical bachelors who appreciated a rare home-cooked meal.

  “We need to get ready for that conference call.” Coop addressed Mark over the rim of his mug.

  “Right.” Mark stood and carried his empty plate to the sink.

  “Is there news?” Monica directed her question to Coop.

  “I hope so. The lab in Quantico and the ERT from Richmond will be patched into the call. We need some answers about how security was breached at your house.”

  “Nothing from the informer?”

  “Not yet.” He hadn’t told her about the latest missive from the terrorists. The threat to her was nonspecific, and there was no reason to increase her already high stress level.

  As he carried his plate to the sink, Monica put away the carton of juice. “I noticed a large library. Do you think it would be okay if I borrowed a book? Reading would help me pass the time.”

  “Of course. The owner said we should make ourselves at home.” Coop paused in the doorway. “If you need us for anything, don’t hesitate to interrupt.”

  “Okay.”

  Left alone, Monica cleaned up the breakfast dishes. The routine task left her mind free to dwell on the threat that hung over her, her father’s safety, the fate of the three kidnapped hostages—and Coop’s intimate expression earlier.

  None of those thoughts brought her any peace of mind—or helped her sort through her jumbled emotions.

  Reading would help her cope, she decided, giving the counter one last swipe. Especially if the library held one particular book.

  “Is everyone on the line?”

  “We’re in, Les.” Coop pushed the speaker button and set his BlackBerry on the polished desk in the safe house’s mahoganypaneled study. He settled back in a dark green leather club chair, a twin to the one Mark had claimed.

  “Dennis Powers here. I have Gary Krouse with me, the ERT lead technician at Ms. Callahan’s house. Nick Bradley, who headed the security team, is also here.”

  “Good.” Les’s gravelly voice ground through the speaker. “Melanie Parks from our lab in Quantico is on the line too. Gary, why don’t you start?”

  “Okay.” The sound of papers being shuffled broke the momentary silence. “We didn’t find much in terms of physical evidence. No fingerprints, no footprints, no broken glass or wood slivers to indicate doors or windows had been jimmied. But we did find a few fibers on the laundry room floor, under the small trapdoor that leads to the house’s crawl space. We pegged it as insulation.”

  “I can confirm that,” Melanie said. “It was the standard fiberglass variety.”

  “Someone got into the house through the attic?” Coop leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees, his shoulders taut.

  “That’s our conclusion,” Nick said.

  “But how did someone get into the attic? Mark and I checked it out the day we arrived. It’s no more than a crawl space, with one very small vent at each end.”

  “Did you go up?”

  “No. It’s pretty tight quarters. We flashed a light around from the trapdoor. Ms. Callahan told us she hadn’t been up there since she bought her house five years ago. It’s empty.”

  “That’s true,” Nick agreed. “But on closer examination, we discovered an interesting feature. There’s a small, hinged trapdoor on one side that leads to the garage. It’s almost invisible unless you’re on top of it.”

  “We checked the garage,” Mark chimed in, exchanging a frown with Coop. “We didn’t see a trapdoor.”

  “I’m not surprised. We had to tear the place apart to find it. It’s hidden behind a bulky painting tarp that’s stored on a tall shelving unit.”

  “We tested the samples we received from the trapdoor, and the wood is of fairly recent vintage,” Melanie added.

  “Coop, while we continue this discussion, one of you check with Ms. Callahan and see if she installed a trapdoor in her garage in the past few months,” Les said.

  “Mark’s already on his way.” Coop raked his fingers through his hair and tried to sort out the new information. “Okay, assuming she isn’t aware the door is there, are we concluding our intruder installed it sometime in the past few weeks in case he needed it?”

  “That’s my hypothesis,” Nick said.

  The door to the office opened, and Mark shook his head at Coop as he took his place again. “I spoke with Ms. Callahan. She had no idea the trapdoor was there. She hasn’t painted in two years, and it was a plain wall when she put the tarp up there.”

  “She’s sure?” Les asked.

  “Yes. She was very definite about it.”

  “Okay. So we have a new trapdoor. That doesn’t explain how the intruder got in—and got out—yesterday without detection.” Les’s tone was terse.

  “A couple more pieces of information might help,” Nick responded. “The garage has one window. We found it unlocked.”

  “It wasn’t unlocked when we arrived Saturday. We checked,” Mark said.

  “The pane of glass in one of the grids had also been removed,” Nick continued. “It was sitting on the floor of the garage beside the window. The glass was new. It appeared to have been held in place with minimal caulk. We believe the intruder broke the glass on his first trip in order to flip the lock, then replaced it so it could be easily removed on his next visit.”

  “And no one saw any of this?” Coop demanded.

  “Most of Ms. Callahan’s neighbors work, and there’s a bush beside the garage that hides the window from the street,” Nick responded.

  “That still doesn’t explain how he got in once the house was under surveillance,” Coop pressed.

  There was an uneasy silence at the implied criticism.

  “Go ahead and give them your theory, Nick,” Dennis said.

  “Since Saturday, we’ve had people in the front and back of the house while it was empty, but when the HRT operators were on-site we stayed on the street and did random foot checks in the back. We think whoever did this was watching us long enough to determine that.

  “Here’s my take. Sometime on Sunday night, the intruder waited until we’d completed a foot check, then entered the garage through the window and gained access to the crawl space via the trapdoor. Monday morning, after Ms. Callahan left with Coop and Mark for her speaking engagement, he entered the house through the trapdoor in the
laundry room, poured the blood in the drawer, and exited the way he came in.”

  “But how did he get away?” Mark asked.

  “When Ms. Callahan returned after her speech, we pulled surveillance back to the front of the house, and he used that opportunity to leave through the garage window. We interviewed all of the neighbors, and one woman did notice a meter reader about the time all of you arrived back at the house. She wasn’t able to give us a definitive description, however, and no one else saw anything out of the ordinary. I assume that was our man, and he simply strolled away through the adjacent backyards in his disguise. He was probably given an all-clear signal by an accomplice watching the house.”

  If Nick was right—and Coop couldn’t fault the man’s deductive reasoning—that meant the intruder had been in the attic all night.

  While they slept.

  A cold chill raced up his spine. Mark’s shocked expression mirrored his own.

  “By the way, in case anyone is interested, the blood in the drawer was canine, not human,” Melanie added.

  But it could have been theirs. The guy could have taken all of them out if he’d wanted to, Coop acknowledged, trying to swallow past the sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Yet he hadn’t. Under orders from the mastermind who’d planned the kidnappings in Afghanistan and launched a methodical campaign of terror against David Callahan and his daughter, the intruder had gone to elaborate lengths to send a very strong message. The delivery of it had been planned in frightening detail and executed with precision.

  And according to the last message David Callahan had received, it was only going to get worse if the diplomat didn’t convince the U.S. and Afghan governments to cave in to the terrorists’ demands.

  “These people are thorough.” Les echoed Coop’s thoughts, pulling him back to the moment. “I know the safe house and grounds were swept prior to your arrival, but do it again.”

  The concern in his boss’s voice did nothing to relieve Coop’s uneasiness. In his four years on the HRT, he’d never sensed even a hint of nervousness in the man.

  “We’ll take care of it right away,” Coop promised.