Against All Odds Page 2

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  Two hours later, Coop angled his wrist on the steering wheel and checked his watch. Not bad. At this rate, they should be in Richmond well before the nine o’clock deadline Les had given them.

  “You want any breakfast?”

  At Mark’s question, Coop flicked a quick look in his direction. When his partner inclined his head toward a pair of familiar yellow arches at the top of the highway off-ramp up ahead, Coop grimaced.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Mark said.

  “I’m still tasting the grounds from Les’s so-called coffee. But I’ll pull off if you’re hungry.”

  “I can wait awhile.”

  Coop didn’t offer again. The mere thought of food was enough to make him queasy. “Finding anything interesting?” He nodded toward the briefing material in Mark’s lap. His partner had been engrossed in it since they pulled onto the highway, and Coop had been content to drive in silence.

  “David Callahan is impressive.”

  “He must be to have enough clout to pull off this kind of security. And to have Oval Office connections.”

  “Sounds like he’s earned a few favors. The man has been in more hot spots than a Bedouin’s camel.”

  “Remind me to appreciate your humor later, when I feel more human.” Coop gave him a sardonic look. “Too bad we weren’t assigned to his security detail. Given the level of scrutiny on this job, I have a feeling that would have been safer than babysitting his daughter.”

  “Hey, look at it this way.” Mark fished a photo out of the file and positioned it in his partner’s field of vision. “If we have to babysit, at least she’s a babe.”

  Babe was a good word to describe Monica Callahan, Coop conceded as he examined the head shot. Shiny, russet-colored hair framed her oval face and skimmed her shoulders, the tapered blunt cut providing fullness and bounce. Bangs swept to either side of her smooth forehead, and intelligent, deep green eyes stared into the camera with a disarming frankness. Her lips were curved in an ever-so-slight smile, as if she was thinking about some private joke.

  For some reason, Coop got stuck on her lips. They were full and soft and oh-so-appealing. Kissable was the word that came to mind. And very . . .

  “Watch the road,” Mark suggested mildly, his expression amused as the car began to drift toward the shoulder.

  Jerking his focus back to the highway, Coop made a course correction.

  “I thought this would get your attention.” Mark grinned and slid the photo back into the file. “Why don’t you pull over and we’ll switch places? Once you’re up to speed on the files, we can talk about a game plan.”

  “Okay by me.”

  Thirty minutes later, Coop closed the file on Monica Callahan. “I’m impressed.”

  “There aren’t any slouches in that family, that’s for sure.”

  “How many people do you know who’ve written a bestselling book at age thirty-four?”

  “Zero. Until now. What was the name of it again?”

  “Talk the Walk.”

  “Clever.”

  “And that’s just for starters. PhD in communications. College professor. Business trainer and communications consultant. Sought-after speaker. She’s one busy lady.”

  “Who is not going to take kindly to having her life disrupted, I suspect.”

  Flipping open the file again, Coop gave it one more quick scan. “I didn’t see anything in here about why she and her father are estranged, did you?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s going to complicate things.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  In the distance, Coop spotted another pair of yellow arches. “I think I could face some food now. Besides, I don’t want to go into this on an empty stomach.”

  “You don’t have to twist my arm.” Mark flipped on his turn signal.

  As his partner edged into the right lane, Coop surveyed the bleak February landscape outside his window. A light dusting of snow covered the ground, and the temperature was hovering at the freezing mark. The scene was cold. Inhospitable. Ominous.

  Like this assignment.

  His gut clenched into a knot, and an unsettling feeling of apprehension swept over him. “I don’t have good vibes about this mission.”

  At his quiet comment, Mark shot him a surprised look. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  Twin furrows dented Coop’s brow. Mark was right. He couldn’t remember ever being intimidated by an assignment, from busting up a lethal drug ring in Puerto Rico to high-risk international fugitive pickups to quelling a prison riot. He was used to danger.

  Yet this job spooked him, for reasons he couldn’t articulate. He just had a gut feeling they were walking onto a minefield. And in general, he trusted his instincts.

  This case, however, was a little different. The intense scrutiny that White House involvement implied could, in itself, account for his trepidation, he supposed. Until they scoped out the job and met the woman they’d been assigned to protect, he needed to keep his concerns in check. There was no reason for both of them to worry unnecessarily.

  “Sorry.” He tried to massage away the dull headache pounding behind his temples. “Chalk it up to too many beers and not enough sleep.”

  “Maybe food will help.”

  “Maybe.”

  As Mark turned onto the exit ramp, Coop hoped his partner was right. Monica Callahan’s refusal to take her father’s calls wasn’t a good sign, but perhaps she would listen to reason in person. Based on her file, she sounded like an intelligent, articulate, mature person. Someone who would be able to put her personal feelings aside and look at the situation in a logical manner. Who would listen to—and follow—the recommendations of experts. Who would do her best to make their job easy.

  He hoped.

  Chin propped in hand, Monica reread the conclusion of the thesis written by a graduate student she was advising. Not a bad first effort. But not up to this student’s capabilities, either. The analysis of the research project wasn’t thorough enough. Fortunately, it was only a first draft.

  She wrote some comments in red at the end, hesitating once to wonder if she was being too critical. No, she decided. She was no harder on her students than she was on herself. She finished the sentence, then set the sheaf of papers aside.

  Reaching for her mug, Monica took a sip of the cooling coffee and checked the clock on the wall in her home office. Eight-thirty. She’d been working for more than two hours already. Not an ideal way to spend a Saturday morning, but her speaking schedule had been heavy since the release of her book a month ago, and she had a lot of catching up to do. Good thing she wasn’t trying to teach a class this semester too.

  She glanced at the phone on her desk, glad she’d turned it off. Shutting out the world always helped her focus. But it had been a bit harder than usual to tune things out today after the disturbing call in the early hours of the morning from her father. Or rather, from her father’s office. How like him to have an underling place a personal call rather than dial it himself, she thought in disgust. Family matters had always been relegated to a distant second place in his life, well behind his job.

  But she was grateful it hadn’t been him on the line. After the man had identified himself and asked her to hold for her father, she’d had a chance to recover from her shock and regroup. Though she was curious about his reasons for contacting her after a gap of more years than she cared to count, she’d long ago decided that David Callahan had no place in her life. So severing the connection—and leaving the phone off the hook—had not only bought her an uninterrupted morning of work, it had sent a strong message to her father.

  At least she hoped it had.

  Because she had no interest in what the man had to say.

  Monica Callahan was as stunning in person as her photo had suggested.

  That was Coop’s quick assessment when she opened her door in answer to Mark’s knock at 8:45. She was also tall—five-seven or eight, he estimated, using his
own six-foot-two frame as reference—and her snug, worn jeans and body-hugging black turtleneck confirmed that her slender figure was rounded in all the appropriate places.

  “May I help you?” Her green eyes were cordial, and she had a voice as smooth as warm honey.

  “Ms. Callahan, I’m Mark Sanders and this is Evan Cooper with the FBI.” Mark flashed his credentials. “May we come in?”

  Surprise rippled across her face, followed by suspicion. “If this has anything to do with my father, I’m not interested.”

  The slender hope for an easy, uncomplicated mission that Coop had been nurturing began to shrivel.

  “Ms. Callahan, we’re here because a number of people in positions of authority have reason to believe you’re in danger.” Coop tried for a calm, reasonable tone.

  Monica’s eyes narrowed, and she aimed a hostile look at him. “Including my father?”

  “Among others.”

  “My father hasn’t played any role in my life in years. I don’t intend to let him start now.”

  As she began to ease the door closed, Coop had a split second to consider their options. Unfortunately, there weren’t many. Les had been clear about their mission—protect Monica Callahan. They could do it the easy way or the hard way. And Coop much preferred the easy way. It was too cold to lurk around outside doing surveillance on her small, well-kept bungalow, as the field agents from the Richmond office had been doing until they arrived. They had to convince her to listen to reason.

  But they wouldn’t have that opportunity if she shut the door in their faces. He and Mark had discussed their strategy if she balked, and he implemented it now.

  “If you value your life, I suggest you give us a chance to explain the situation.”

  At Coop’s blunt statement, Monica froze. Then she lifted her chin slightly. “That sounds like a threat.” Her gaze didn’t waver.

  Neither did Coop’s. “It is. But the threat isn’t from us. It seems you’re on the radar screen of a terrorist group that plays for keeps.”

  The slight dilation of her pupils and the twitch of a muscle near the corner of her mouth told Coop his scare tactic had worked. They had her attention. That was the first step.

  “If you’ll give us a few minutes, we’ll explain,” he offered, warming his tone a couple of degrees.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mark spoke up. “We can’t force you to cooperate. But our assignment is to protect you, and we’ll do that to the best of our ability with or without your assistance. We’ll stay out of your way if you prefer, but our job will be much easier if we work together.”

  After looking from one man to the other, Monica’s lips flattened into a grim line and she stepped back. “Fine. Come in. I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

  As Mark followed her in, Coop did a quick visual sweep of the neighborhood. According to the two field agents who’d been on-site prior to their arrival, everything looked normal. Nor did there seem to be any suspicious activity now. The quiet, tree-shaded neighborhood of small homes appeared to be deserted on this cold February morning, as if everyone was sleeping in. The very thing he wished he was doing, Coop thought with a sigh.

  Stepping inside the door, he twisted the lock. Not even a deadbolt, he noted with a frown. An intruder’s dream. Break the glass side panels beside the front door, reach in, and flip the lock. Gaining entry would be a piece of cake.

  “Something wrong?”

  At the frosty question, Coop turned. Monica had stopped in her small foyer and was watching him, hands on hips, her posture tense. Over her shoulder, Mark gave a slight shake of his head, as if to say, “This isn’t going to be easy.”

  Amen, thought Coop.

  “Just looking at your locks.” He tried for a conversational tone, hoping to diffuse the almost palpable tension. “Do you have a security system?”

  “I’ve never needed one.”

  He ignored the challenge in her words. “If there’s somewhere we could all sit down, we’ll fill you in on the situation.”

  After a brief hesitation, she led the way into the living room to the left of the foyer. Decorated in a casual, contemporary style, it featured neutral-toned furniture accented with bright throw pillows that picked up the predominant hues in the colorful impressionist prints hanging on the ivory walls. A thick oval of glass supported by a granite base served as a coffee table. On top was a small vase of fresh flowers, a bowl of M&Ms, and an ornate, old-fashioned music box that seemed out of character with the clean, simple lines of the room. Built-in bookcases, filled to overflowing, flanked a bay window on the far wall.

  Monica chose a chair upholstered in a subtle geometric pattern formed by shades of gray interspersed with magenta flecks. Gripping a throw pillow against her abdomen, she crossed her legs and glared at the intruders. Mark perched on the arm of the dove-gray couch, leaving a teak chair with an upholstered seat to Coop.

  When Monica remained silent, Mark folded his arms across his chest and looked at Coop. He’d taken the lead when they’d knocked on the door, but now he seemed content to let his partner do the talking.

  Thanks a lot, Coop signaled with his eyes.

  The merest twitch of Mark’s lips told Coop his message had been received.

  Turning his attention to Monica, Coop plunged in. Considering that the atmosphere couldn’t get any more strained, he figured they might as well lay their cards on the table. “Are you aware of the current hostage situation in Afghanistan?”

  “Yes.” Monica regarded him warily.

  “Your father is involved. And he’s been receiving threats from the kidnappers.”

  “I would think he’s used to that sort of thing by now, given the nature of his work.”

  “The threat has been extended to include you.”

  Her expression grew skeptical. “You’re suggesting that terrorists in Afghanistan are targeting me? Here in Richmond?”

  “Terrorist groups have cells everywhere.”

  “Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”

  “Your father doesn’t think so. Neither does the White House.”

  “The White House?” Her face went blank with shock.

  “It seems your father has connections in high places.”

  Coop gave her time to process his bombshell, watching as shock gave way to resentment.

  “You’re saying these terrorists are hoping to get my father to give in to their demands by threatening me?” she clarified.

  “More or less.”

  Tossing the throw pillow aside, she rose in agitation and strode to one of the front windows. As she stared out, she shook her head and gave a bitter laugh. “Well, the joke’s on them. He couldn’t care less. I—”

  She broke off in mid-sentence as Coop took her arm and eased her back, stepping between her and the window as he pulled down the shade.

  “What are you doing?” She gave him a confused look.

  “Trying to prevent you from being a target.”

  She drew a sharp breath, almost as if she’d been slapped. “You’re serious about this.”

  “Dead serious.” Coop nodded to Mark, and the other man rose to draw the rest of the shades. The day was already overcast, and the room grew dim.

  “If you’re trying to make my day even gloomier, you’re succeeding. And that’s quite a feat, since I’m a pretty upbeat person in general.” Monica reached out to flip on a lamp.

  A tremor ran through her voice, undermining her attempt at sarcasm and bravado. And her hand wasn’t quite steady, Coop noted. Good. Healthy fear was an asset in a situation like this, as was spunk.

  “We’re trying to give you a realistic idea of what you’re up against if the threat is serious,” Coop countered.

  “Is it?” She gave him a direct, assessing look.

  “We have no reason to believe it isn’t.” Coop directed his next comment to his partner. “Why don’t you brief Ms. Callahan on the basics from the file we reviewed en route
.”

  They retook their seats, and Coop let Mark have the floor. His rundown earned her rapt attention, giving Coop a chance to observe her reactions—and admire her classic profile. Monica Callahan was a beautiful woman. Not to mention smart, talented, and successful. Yet according to her file, she was unattached. Why? Of all the unanswered questions about this job, that one intrigued him the most.

  “. . . want me to do?”

  Only the tail end of her question registered, and Coop forced himself to refocus.

  “The easiest way for us to protect you is for you to disappear until the threat is neutralized,” Mark responded.

  “Disappear?” She gave him a puzzled look.

  “To a safe house,” Coop jumped in. “A place only a handful of people know about.”

  “And how long will it take for this threat to be . . . neutralized? These hostage situations have been known to drag on for weeks.”

  Mark and Coop exchanged a look. If they wanted Monica Callahan’s trust and cooperation, Coop suspected nothing less than absolute honesty would suffice.

  “We’d like to think this will be over in a matter of days. Or sooner. But you’re right. There are no guarantees.”

  Already Coop was beginning to recognize—and dislike—the sudden firming of her jaw that indicated she was going to dig in her heels.

  “I have obligations to fulfill.”

  “Ms. Callahan, let me give it to you straight.” Coop leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees, his gaze intent. “If you won’t follow our suggestions, our ability to protect you will be compromised.”

  “That’s my problem, isn’t it?”

  “Not when the Oval Office is involved.”

  Anger flared for a brief second in her eyes. Once it died down, she returned Coop’s look without flinching. “I’m sorry to complicate your lives. But the fact is, we’re talking about my life here. And frankly, I think everyone is overreacting. The notion that a terrorist group would single me out is ludicrous. And other than one sentence in a terrorist missive, you’ve given me no reason to believe the threat is serious. Look around you.”

  She waved her hand in an encompassing arc. “I lead a quiet, ordinary, orderly life in a quiet, ordinary neighborhood. This is not terrorist territory. So let me give it to you straight too. I’m not leaving my home. I’ll reschedule whatever commitments I can if that will make your job easier, but I’m not going to put my life on hold because of my father. That’s my best offer.”