Against All Odds Page 3

  As Coop and Mark exchanged a quick glance, she rose. “Why don’t you gentlemen talk about this while I put on another pot of coffee. If you can come up with a reasonable plan, I’ll listen.”

  Coop rose before she took two steps. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me take a look first.”

  She halted and angled toward him, crossing her arms tight to her body. “You guys are determined to make me paranoid, aren’t you?”

  “No, ma’am. We just want to keep you safe,” Mark spoke up.

  Tight-lipped, she nodded toward the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

  As Coop passed, he could feel the tension emanating from her body. He wanted to reassure her they’d do their best to disrupt her life as little as possible, but in reality their presence would be intrusive. And she was stuck with them, in one way or another, until the hostage crisis in the Mideast was resolved.

  He secured the kitchen as quickly as he could, and when he returned she disappeared down the hall without a word.

  Silence settled into the room as she exited. Mark moved closer to Coop and perched on the edge of the couch. “The lady is not happy.”

  “Tell me about it.” Coop raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “I don’t think she’s going to budge from this place, and the house has serious security issues.”

  “I noticed.”

  “We may need to call in some local field agents for perimeter security.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You and I are going to have to stick close. As in inside. And she is not going to appreciate having her space invaded 24/7.”

  “I’d say that’s a fair assessment. But to be honest, I’m more concerned about her security away from here. We need to get a handle on her commitments for the next few days and put together an ops plan. We may have to request some backup.”

  The headache that had begun to fade started pounding again in Coop’s temples with renewed vigor. “You want to put in the call to Les?”

  “Nope.” Mark folded his arms across his chest. “I ran interference for you this morning in his office. It’s your turn to step into the line of fire.”

  “Any suggestions?” Coop took the handoff without argument. Mark had done him a favor earlier when his brain had felt pickled; it was only fair he return it.

  “Pray?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Hey, maybe it’s not such bad advice.” Mark’s quick grin faded. “I can tell you one thing, though. Les is not going to be happy.”

  “I can tell you something else. We’re going to need all the help we can get to pull this job off.”

  3

  It wasn’t fair.

  Monica gave the button on the coffee grinder an angry jab. As she gripped the edge of the counter in a futile attempt to restore some sense of stability to her shaken world, the grating noise was an audible parallel to the silent churning in her stomach. Why, after all these years, after she’d finally moved past the hurt and guilt and betrayal, had her father reappeared to disrupt her life again?

  Resentment bubbled up inside her, seeking release.

  But she shouldn’t be taking it out on the two men in the next room, she acknowledged, remorse pricking her conscience. It wasn’t their fault her father had abandoned her and her mother. Nor did they bear any blame for her unresolved feelings about her unhappy family history. They were just trying to do their job.

  By rote, she put the ground coffee into a filter, slid it into the coffeemaker, and poured in a carafe of water. Whatever anger she felt should be directed toward the source, she reminded herself. Her father. Once again, his job had impinged on her life, setting into motion a chain of events that had, according to the two men in her living room, sucked her into a web of danger. Assuming that was true, she’d be a fool not to cooperate with their efforts to protect her.

  So she would. On her terms. Like it or not, the FBI would have to carry out its assignment without taking over her life.

  And judging by the reaction of the two men when she’d delivered that ultimatum, they didn’t like it.

  Not one little bit.

  “The message has been delivered.”

  Tariq al-Hashemi, seated cross-legged on the dirt floor, looked up from the map he was studying. The setting sun streaked in through the small, grimy window in the mud wall of the half-ruined building on the outskirts of Kandahar, spotlighting his aide’s youthful, impatient face. He’d been that way once too. Long ago. But life had snuffed out both youth and haste. Now, though he was just shy of forty-five, he knew he looked twenty years older. The mirror didn’t lie. Deep creases lined his cheeks and forehead beneath his black turban. Gray flecks peppered his dark beard, and his loose-fitting pants and black robe hung on his gaunt frame. But he used the sharp intensity of his dark eyes to temper his aged appearance.

  “Good. Any problems?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Positioning his body so the weak sunlight could better illuminate the map in his lap, Tariq resumed his perusal.

  After a few moments, sensing the man in the doorway hadn’t accepted his dismissal, Tariq pinned him with a steely look. “What is it, Anis?”

  “Are there any further instructions?”

  “No. Now we wait.”

  “But it has been a week already. And the Americans are not responding.”

  Tariq’s nostrils flared with anger. There had been a time when no one—no one—questioned his decisions. His fall from grace had been humiliating enough, but the loss of power and authority was even more difficult to bear. Allah willing, he would regain both. Soon. He was becoming a major player in the country’s massive opium trade, and funds were beginning to flow in. If all went according to plan, the kidnapping would not only raise additional money, it would bring the Americans to their knees.

  One American in particular.

  Rising in one lithe movement to his full five-foot-ten height, he threw his shoulders back and let his silent, penetrating stare bore into the other man until Anis shifted and dropped his gaze. Only then did Tariq speak.

  “You are young, Anis. And inexperienced. You must learn that patience is our ally. And you must learn that there can be only one leader. If you are not willing to accept my decisions without question, you are free to leave.”

  Humiliation mottled the man’s ebony complexion. “Of course. I beg your forgiveness.” With a slight bow, he backed from the room.

  A full sixty seconds passed before Tariq moved. Turning toward the window, he allowed the rigid line of his shoulders to ease slightly as he walked the short distance to the grimy pane. Though he changed locations often, the view from his succession of windows was predictable. Dusty, arid streets and crumbling buildings, or the endless, unforgiving expanse of desert. Poverty. Hunger. Despair. All the things he had known for most of his forty-four years. All the things he despised.

  It was his hatred for privation that had propelled him to seek power and affluence, using whatever means were necessary—first as a recruit to the Taliban, later as an ally to the new government. And over time, he’d created a good life, one that allowed him to live in a degree of comfort far removed from his impoverished roots. Until an investigation into corruption within the new government had sent his world into a downward spiral.

  And the mastermind behind the investigation that had led to his downfall?

  Troubleshooter—and troublemaker—David Callahan.

  Tariq watched as the sun set behind the distant mountains, throwing the barren desert terrain into bleak shadows. He’d accomplished much since his ignominious fall from power, he reflected in satisfaction. Once he’d wrestled his hot anger into submission and replaced it with a cold, hard, ruthless determination, he’d begun to reassemble his band of followers, all the while keeping tabs on the tottering government. Despite David Callahan’s behind-the-scenes efforts to clean house early on, corruption had mushroomed and spun out of control after the diplomat left. It was only a matter of time until the gove
rnment collapsed and the U.S. was ousted.

  And Tariq intended to help things along.

  From the moment he’d learned of David Callahan’s return, he’d been formulating the plan that had been set into motion with the three back-to-back abductions a week ago. The hostages were now secured in a domed mud hut outside Kandahar, in one of a hundred small, anonymous villages that blended into the desert.

  If David Callahan convinced U.S. and Afghanistan authorities to meet Tariq’s demands in return for the release of the hostages, all the better. Such a coup would fill his coffers and expose a weakness—in the government and in David Callahan—that would make both vulnerable to future attacks.

  However, knowing Callahan’s tough stance on terrorists and the man’s dismissal of personal threats, Tariq hadn’t been surprised that the diplomat had ignored his demands. That’s when he’d raised the stakes. Letting three strangers die rather than violate your principles was one thing.

  Letting your only child die was another matter entirely.

  As the fiery sun disappeared behind a jagged peak, snuffing the light from the landscape, a sense of calm filled Tariq. He’d long ago grown immune to killing. Life was cheap. No one had cared when his wife and six-year-old son perished in a vicious blizzard in the refugee camp. Why should he care if others suffered similar fates? Tariq wanted power. And revenge. If necessary, death would be a means to that end.

  He hoped David Callahan understood that.

  Because if he didn’t, people would die.

  Including his daughter.

  “Les? Coop. We’re at Monica Callahan’s.”

  “And?”

  “She’s not thrilled by our presence.”

  “That was a given, considering she’s on the outs with her father. Did you convince her to move to a safe house? I’ve got one lined up about a hundred miles outside of Washington.”

  From his vantage point on the small front porch of Monica’s bungalow, Coop considered his response as he surveyed the neighborhood. The place was starting to come alive, and he stepped to one side, behind a piece of lattice woven with a tapestry of dead vines. An older man in the house across the street exited the front door, clutching a bathrobe around his well-padded middle as he hustled toward a rolled-up newspaper on the walk. Farther down the block, a car pulled out of a driveway and headed in the opposite direction. Two kids on skateboards, oblivious to the cold, were having some sort of competition a few houses down. It looked like a normal Saturday morning.

  If only it was.

  “No.” Dancing around Les’s question wasn’t going to win him any brownie points, Coop decided. “At this point, the best we’ve been able to do is convince her to alter her schedule somewhat to better accommodate our surveillance.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “We’ll keep trying.” Coop could picture Les squinting as the commander chomped on his cigar.

  “Do that. White House or no White House, I can’t afford to send a bunch of operators down there just because this woman is being unreasonable.”

  “Understood. But if she won’t budge, we’ll need some backup. We thought the local field office might be able to handle perimeter surveillance.”

  “They’re not going to like that.”

  “I know.” All HRT operators started their FBI careers as field agents, and Coop was well aware that the assignment he was proposing would take precious time away from an agent’s regular cases. “But I didn’t think going to local law enforcement for help would be an option.”

  “It isn’t. This case is classified. We have to handle it ourselves.”

  The line went quiet, and Coop waited in silence. Les’s cigar was getting a workout this morning.

  “Okay. Regroup with the lady. Try again to get her to see reason. In the meantime, I’ll talk to the Richmond SAC and lay some groundwork.”

  Since the special agent in charge of the Richmond field office had already sent two men out this morning to Monica Callahan’s house, Coop had a feeling he wouldn’t be surprised by the follow-up call. Nor would he be pleased.

  “I’ll be back in touch once we have a firm ops plan in place.” A dark brown delivery van stopped two houses down, and Coop shifted position to keep it in sight. Despite the familiar logo on the side and the driver’s standard uniform, he watched as the man jogged up to a door, deposited a package, rang the bell, and jogged back.

  “Everything okay there at the moment?”

  “Yes.” Coop kept the van in sight until it disappeared around the corner at the end of the street. “My initial impression is that security at the house is pathetic, but we’ll do a more thorough check and remedy what we can.”

  “Get back to me as soon as you have a plan.”

  “Will do.” Coop slid his BlackBerry back into the holder on his belt and did one more visual scan of the neighborhood before slipping back inside.

  As he turned from bolting the door, Monica was coming down the hall from the kitchen, carrying a tray laden with mugs, a coffeepot, cream and sugar, and a plate of coffeecake.

  “Let me take that.” He moved toward her and reached for the tray.

  “I can handle it.” She didn’t relinquish her grip.

  “I’m sure you can.” He smiled, holding tight. Logic hadn’t worked with her. Maybe charm would. “But I try to be a gentleman.”

  She considered him for several seconds as he braced for the already-too-familiar independent lift of her chin and prepared to counter whatever argument she raised.

  Instead, to his surprise, her lips softened and she returned his smile, releasing the tray.

  “Thanks. You can put it on the coffee table.”

  Without waiting for a response, she preceded him into the living room. As she leaned over to move aside the bowl of M&Ms, he couldn’t help admire the way her snug jeans showed off her slim waist and trim hips.

  A discreet cough from Mark redirected Coop’s attention. His partner grinned as his gaze flicked back and forth between Coop and Monica, his silent commentary more eloquent than words. Had they been alone, Coop would have responded with an acerbic comeback. As it was, he did his best to ignore the other man.

  “Is that enough room?”

  Once more, Coop switched focus. Monica was watching him, her expression unreadable as she waited for him to deposit the tray on the table.

  “Yes.” He took his time setting it down, willing the hot flush on his neck to subside.

  “Help yourself.” She gestured to the tray as she poured herself a cup of coffee and kicked off her shoes. Tucking her feet under her, she settled into the same chair she’d vacated earlier.

  Mark didn’t wait for a second invitation. He filled a mug and took a generous piece of the cake.

  “Did you two have breakfast?” Monica queried as Mark dug into the cake.

  “Yes. Though you wouldn’t know it by the way my partner is wolfing that down.” Coop sent a pointed glance toward Mark as he poured some coffee.

  “It happens to be very good coffeecake,” Mark defended himself. “Tastes homemade.”

  “It is.” Monica took a sip of her coffee.

  “I’m impressed.” Mark savored another bite. “Compared to that fast-food breakfast we ingested on our way down from Quantico, this is a real treat.”

  “Quantico?” Monica’s hand stilled, and she looked from one to the other. “Isn’t there an FBI office in Richmond?”

  “Yes. But we’re not field agents.” Coop put a piece of cake on a napkin and took his seat. “We’re with the Hostage Rescue Team.”

  “Hostage Rescue Team.” She repeated the name slowly. “I don’t understand.” She reached for a handful of M&Ms, and Coop noted the slight tremor in her fingers.

  “The HRT is a civilian counterterrorism unit. We provide tactical resolution in hostage and high-risk law enforcement situations,” Mark told her, spewing the official description of the unit.

  She popped a couple of the M&Ms into her mouth, crunching down o
n them before she spoke. “I’m still confused. I’m not a hostage.”

  “And we want to keep it that way.” As Coop leaned over to put his mug on the coffee table, the jacket of his suit gapped open to reveal the Glock tucked into a holster on his belt. The firearm caught—and held—Monica’s attention, he noted. She popped some more M&Ms as he discreetly adjusted his jacket.

  “The HRT also provides dignitary protection in special situations,” Mark added.

  “I’m not a dignitary.”

  “Your father is. Meaning you are too, by association. And the White House has concurred with his high-risk assessment. That’s why we’re here.” Coop leaned forward again and clasped his hands together. “Our mission is straightforward, Ms. Callahan. Protect you until the hostage situation is resolved. The terrorists either aren’t aware of—or don’t care about—your estrangement from your father.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You know about that?”

  “The bare facts were in your file. Nothing more. I assume your father mentioned your . . . rift . . . when he arranged for security.”

  “Rift doesn’t begin to cover it.” She gripped her mug with both hands and stared into the dark depths. “My father has played almost no part in my life for the past twenty-four years. And he played only a small role prior to that. I haven’t even seen him since he attended my mother’s funeral ten years ago.”

  Her words were cold and threaded with bitterness and resentment. But Coop had caught the flicker of pain in her eyes, the momentary vulnerability, before she looked down. And he could relate. He’d had his own father troubles, and he knew what a lasting impact that could have. Monica Callahan’s file had painted a picture of a successful, confident, has-her-act-together woman. While that seemed to be accurate as far as it went, he suspected it was incomplete. Whatever had happened between her and her father might be in her distant past, but it continued to cloud her present.