Against All Odds Read online

  “Do that. Anyone else have anything to add?” When silence ensued, Les ended the call. “Keep me informed.”

  The buzz of a dial tone signaled the broken connection, and Coop slowly leaned forward to turn off the phone.

  “Nick painted a pretty disturbing scenario.” Mark crossed an ankle over a knee and folded his hands on his stomach.

  His partner’s studied, relaxed posture was the antithesis of Mark’s real reaction to the situation, Coop knew. When things got dicey or dangerous, Mark adopted an outward calm designed to hide the churning in his gut. In general, Coop had a similar coping style. But it wasn’t kicking in today. He kept picturing the intruder crouched in the crawl space during the long, cold night, clutching a container of blood. What kind of man would do that? What would drive a man to do that? And what might he do next?

  It was the final question that troubled Coop the most.

  “Coop?”

  At Mark’s prod, he focused on his partner. “I was just thinking about what you said. Disturbing is an understatement.”

  “Why don’t you go keep Monica company while I rouse Rick and Mac and get the sweep started?” Mark stood. “I don’t see any reason to add to her stress. The quieter we can do this, the better.”

  “I agree.”

  As Mark headed out the door, Coop drew in a slow, deep breath. The HRT operators and FBI agents assigned to Monica would do their best to protect her. He was confident of that.

  But as the hours ticked by, he was less and less confident it would be enough.

  12

  As if sensing his presence, Monica looked up when Coop paused at the door to the library.

  “Meeting over?” She closed her book.

  “Yes.” He stepped inside the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “You look like you could use some M&Ms.” Lifting the half-empty bag from the table beside her, she shook it as an enticement.

  “No thanks.” A grin tugged at his lips. “Chocolate isn’t one of my vices.”

  “Good. That leaves more for me.” She popped a few into her mouth. “I polished off most of these after Mark’s visit. From his questions, I assume there’s a new trapdoor in my garage.”

  Coop heard the strain behind the forced lightness of her remark. And saw it in her body posture. Although she’d kicked off her shoes and was seated in a comfortable armchair with one long leg tucked under her, her shoulders were stiff and her fingers were clenched around the book in her lap. A Bible, he noted.

  “Yes. Mind if I join you?” He gestured toward the second overstuffed chair that faced the marble-mantled fireplace.

  “No. I’d appreciate an update.”

  He crossed the room, his stride unhurried. Mimicking Mark’s relaxed posture in the study, he crossed an ankle over a knee and proceeded to recite the lab findings and conclusion in a calm, straightforward tone.

  There was little he could do, however, to sugarcoat the most disturbing part of the story. When Monica realized the intruder had been in the attic for the entire night, the color drained from her face and her lips parted slightly in shock.

  “I don’t understand, Coop.” It was clear to him she was struggling to process the news, much as he had done. “If they wanted to use me to convince my father to cooperate, why didn’t this man hurt me?”

  “He would have had to go through us to get to you, and I suspect they aren’t willing to take that risk.” Yet. But he left that qualifier unspoken.

  “I didn’t think terrorists cared about personal risk.”

  “They don’t. But the leader may not want to risk the mission. He needs you as a bargaining chip. He orchestrated this to send a strong message without confrontation or injury. My guess is he hopes your father will be intimidated enough by this incident to convince the powers-that-be to meet their demands.”

  “He won’t be swayed.”

  Even to save his own daughter?

  Coop tried to mask his censure, but Monica was too quick for him. She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “He’s right, Coop. I’ve read enough about terrorists to know that giving in to their demands breeds more terrorism. And leads to even greater loss of life. The only way to stop the cycle of kidnapping, their apparent weapon of choice, is to render it unprofitable. If you meet their demands, it’s an admission that terrorism works, and that leads to chaos, which leads to more terrorism. I don’t remember much about my father growing up, but I do remember his position on that. And I agree with it. A threat to me shouldn’t dissuade him from doing what’s right.”

  Everything Monica had said with such passion was true, Coop conceded. He couldn’t argue with her in principle. But how did you reconcile principle with the need to care for those you loved, when the two were in direct opposition? He imagined David Callahan was struggling with that very conflict now. And the diplomat was trusting the HRT to lessen that burden by keeping his daughter safe.

  There was no way Coop wanted to disappoint him. For professional—and personal—reasons.

  “I can see you have strong feelings on the subject.” Coop maintained an even tone.

  “Stronger than I realized.” She took a deep breath and sank back into the chair, as if her speech had drained her energy. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the situation for the past few days. Whoever is behind this is smart. They’ve put my father in an untenable position by giving him a vested interest in the outcome. I don’t want him to compromise his principles and bolster the terrorists’ cause because of me. He has to do what’s best in the larger context and take personal considerations out of it.”

  “That’s easier said than done.” When his voice came out more husky than he intended, Coop changed the subject. “Does that help?” He gestured toward the Bible she was clutching.

  She blinked once, twice, as she shifted gears. “Yes. Very much.”

  “My brother puts a lot of stock in it too.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  He hadn’t intended to share that with her, but she’d been studying him in that perceptive, disquieting way of hers, and he’d said the first thing that popped into his mind to distract her. Maybe she’d get the hint if he shifted the conversation away from personal subjects.

  “Yeah. One brother. Where did you find that?” He gestured toward the Bible.

  “On the table by the window. Where does your brother live?”

  So much for his brief hope she’d pick up his cue to switch topics. “California.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “No.”

  “So where did you grow up?”

  “Pennsylvania.”

  “I’ve been there a couple of times. What part?”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  “Nice town.”

  No response.

  Crossing her legs, Monica pursed her lips and regarded him. “To use an old cliché, it’s like pulling teeth to get information out of you. Is that the result of your FBI training, or are you just an uncommunicative sort of guy?”

  As usual, she didn’t mince any words. But then, words were her business. And it was clear she followed her own advice. When it came to letting people know how she felt, she talked the walk.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?” he countered.

  “It’s called conversation, Coop. Besides, aren’t you the man who told me a few days ago that you’ve always believed you could never have too much information about anything—or anyone—you’re involved with? If putting my life in your hands doesn’t constitute involvement, I don’t know what does.”

  She’d thrown his own words back at him. Score one for the lady.

  Rising, he shoved his hands in his pockets and moved a few steps away to stare down at the flickering flames in the gas fireplace. “I don’t talk much about my past, Monica.”

  “Why not?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be much point. It’s history. What’s done is done.”

  “T
rue. But we’re all a product of our past, and a person’s history often helps others understand who they are now. Without that background, it’s hard to establish any kind of close relationship.”

  Which was exactly why he’d avoided sharing his past.

  When the silence lengthened, Monica reached for her bag of M&Ms and rose. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I think I’ll check out the DVDs I saw in the hearth room off the kitchen and see if there are any old movies. I could use a classic musical comedy about now.”

  The security sweep would be in full progress, and Coop had promised Mark to keep Monica occupied—and unaware. He needed to extend this conversation. “You like old movies?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” She headed for the door.

  Desperate, he dangled some bait, hoping to snag her attention. “My brother was a John Wayne fan.”

  It worked. She hesitated and looked over her shoulder, as if waiting to see whether he would offer more.

  “He’s a good guy. A lawyer, with a lovely wife and three great kids.” He doled out a few more pieces of information.

  “I always wanted a brother or sister.” She half turned toward him, as if testing the water. “Do you see him often?”

  Digging deep, he dredged up an answer. “No. We have very different lifestyles. For one thing, he’s into religion like you are.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “How so?” He gave her a wary look, unsure where her comment was leading—but pretty certain he wasn’t going to like the direction.

  “You grew up in the same environment. He has a strong faith, you don’t. There must be a reason for that.”

  Suspicion confirmed. They were moving into restricted territory. But he didn’t have a good exit strategy. If he avoided her implied question, she’d probably write him off and head out to find that old movie. Not good. He had to distract her. If that required stepping out of his comfort zone, he’d have to make the sacrifice.

  “We didn’t share quite the same environment.”

  That caught her attention. She took a couple of steps back into the room. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a long story.” Coop motioned to the chair she’d vacated. “You might want to sit.”

  To his relief, she retook her seat without another word, then sent an expectant look his way.

  The ball was in his court.

  “Adam is six years older than me.” He moved closer to the fire and shoved his palms into his back pockets as he watched the flickering flames. “He was nine when our mother died of cancer, and he spent most of his waking hours after that with his best friend’s family. His friend’s mother became a surrogate mom for him.”

  Monica did the math. Coop had been three when his mother died. At nine, Adam would already have had a good grounding in maternal love. Plus, he’d been informally “adopted” by his best friend’s family. His environment had been as normal as possible under the circumstances.

  Coop, on the other hand, had been little more than a toddler. His memories of his mother would be vague or nonexistent, and his father had been distant. The result had been a childhood without warmth or love. No wonder the man was enclosed. He’d had no role model to follow during his formative years.

  “Who took care of you after your mother died?” Monica watched his profile as she broached the question.

  “We had a succession of housekeepers. Some better than others.”

  His dispassionate response was intended to communicate it hadn’t mattered to him. But Monica sensed otherwise. The stiffness in his shoulders told her that hurt remained from those long-ago days. And she understood the pain of having a cold, uncaring father. The difference was, she’d had a loving mother to compensate for her father’s deficiencies. Coop hadn’t.

  “I see what you mean about you and your brother having different environments. Your dad sounds a lot like my dad.”

  “At least mine had his reasons.” Coop continued to focus on the fire. “I learned later that after my mom died he almost had a nervous breakdown. They were very much in love, and he couldn’t handle the loss. In the end, the only way he could cope was to shut down emotionally and throw himself into his work. I can’t fault him for that, if it helped him survive. But it wasn’t easy for a kid to live in that environment. Dad mellowed a lot after he married Estelle, but I was sixteen by then.”

  In other words, it had been too late to salvage the damage done in his childhood. Monica had no trouble reading between the lines of Coop’s commentary. And it explained a lot.

  “People react to adversity in a lot of different ways. I have a feeling your dad didn’t mean to cut you off.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. He wasn’t a bad man. And he tried to make amends when I was older. But I’d lost interest at that point. I had my own life, and I really didn’t need him anymore.”

  For years, Monica had felt the same way about her own father. Yet deep inside she’d always yearned for that missing link. As she guessed Coop had.

  “Did you two stay in touch?”

  “On and off.” The flickering flames cast shadows on his profile, highlighting crevices of fatigue and worry she hadn’t noticed before. “He died last year. Heart attack.” The muscles in his throat worked, and he fell silent.

  Much as he might deny it, Coop’s father had meant more to him than he was willing to admit, Monica concluded.

  “I’m sorry.” She voiced the sentiment softly.

  “Yeah. Me too.” He cleared his throat. “It could have been so different. I didn’t need much as a kid. I just wanted him to notice me.”

  I just wanted him to notice me.

  The pressure of tears built behind Monica’s eyes. A world of hurt was contained in that simple statement. And from what she knew of Coop, she was certain he’d tried his best to make that happen. When he’d failed, it had colored the rest of his life. The boy who’d craved recognition from his father had concluded it was too risky to pin his happiness on someone else’s approval and acceptance. As a result, he’d become a strong, tough, high-achiever who kept others at arm’s length.

  She had no idea how to respond to his revelation.

  As the silence in the room lengthened, Coop tried to figure out what had just happened. How had Monica managed to elicit such personal information? He’d never told any of that stuff to anyone. It exposed a vulnerability, and that was dangerous. It was time for some damage control.

  Preparing to lighten the atmosphere, Coop turned back toward her to offer a teasing remark—only to have the words evaporate. There was a sheen of moisture in her eyes, shimmering in the golden light of the fire, and her features had softened with caring and empathy.

  It was not the reaction he’d expected.

  Once again, he was struck by her ability to delve deep and understand the meaning behind words, posture, behavior. She knew his father’s disinterest had hurt him. That it still did, much as he’d tried to deny it to himself. And he had a feeling she also understood how that disinterest had shaped his life—and his relationships.

  To his surprise, he didn’t feel threatened or angry by her intrusion into private territory. In fact, just the opposite. It felt good to share his long-suppressed pain with someone. No, he corrected himself, not someone. Monica.

  An unexpected rush of tenderness tugged at his heart, and he had the sudden urge to close the distance between them, to pull her to her feet and take her hands in his. To touch the silky skin of her cheek, bend his head and taste her soft lips.

  And for once, his impulse to kiss a woman wasn’t driven by hormones. He was drawn to Monica at a deeper level than that. Deep enough to imply there could be more to this relationship than mere physical attraction.

  And that scared him. Enough to keep his feet firmly rooted to the spot. He wasn’t ready for anything that hinted at commitment.

  Summoning up the lazy smile he used in the bar scene, he jammed his fists into his pockets. “Sorry. That got a little heavy. I don’t usually
bore pretty ladies with my sordid past.”

  She gave him an assessing look, and he got the distinct impression that she’d recognized his flattery for what it was—a defense mechanism. An attempt to relegate her to the just-another-pretty-face category. And she wasn’t buying.

  But to his relief, she didn’t call him on it.

  “I wasn’t bored. Thanks for sharing some of your background.” She stood. “I think I’ll go check out the DVDs now. I saw a shelf with quite a collection, and—”

  “Wait a sec.” He reached for his vibrating phone, checking the ID before putting it to his ear. Mark. “What’s up?”

  “We need to check out the library.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re done in the dining room, living room, and kitchen area. Can you think of an excuse to move to any of those?”

  “Yes. Great timing. Thanks.”

  As Coop slipped the phone back on to his belt, he smiled at Monica. “Want some company for that movie?”

  Surprise flickered across her face, then gave way to a pleased smile. “Sure. But I warn you, I go for the old ones.”

  “How old?”

  “Filmed before you were born. Way before you were born, unless you’re a lot older than you look. And I like comedies and musicals.”

  “I could go for a comedy.”

  “Not big on musicals, huh?”

  “I can tolerate them in small doses.”

  “Okay.” She grinned and turned back toward the door. “A comedy it is, then.”

  The house was quiet as he followed her out. Coop assumed the rest of the HRT team was laying low until he and Monica settled into the hearth room. By the time the movie was over, the sweep would be finished. The house would be as secure as they could get it.

  He could only hope it would be secure enough.

  13

  A sudden vibration on the table in the coffee shop distracted Nouri from his laptop, and he picked up his cell phone. “Yes.”

  “The local police are continuing to patrol the road behind the house every thirty minutes. Agents on perimeter guard duty are checking in with their command center at twenty-minute intervals. There has been no variation in that pattern.”