Against All Odds Page 8

  On a professional level, he considered that a good sign. Fear often induced caution—and cooperation.

  But on a personal level, it tightened his gut. Monica had been put in danger through no fault of her own, and while they would do their best to protect her, there were no guarantees. Especially in a situation involving terrorists who held nothing sacred. Least of all life.

  As an HRT operator, he wanted to scare her into following their advice and working with them.

  As a man, he wanted to alleviate her fears despite his own growing concern.

  In the end, he chose to temper his response, reassuring her without downplaying the danger.

  “It took some coordination, but I’d rather err on the side of caution than be caught unprepared.” He kept his tone conversational. “Besides, we’ve handled situations far more complicated.”

  She stared out the tinted window in silence for a few seconds, giving Coop a chance to admire her classic profile.

  “What about my speech tomorrow? And the book signing later in the week?”

  “What about them?”

  “Are they going to be a huge hassle for you?”

  “We’ll worry about the book signing as it gets closer. After the other security team arrives later today, Mark and I will go over and check out the setup at the hotel. Our preference is that you cancel the speech, but I expect we’ll be able to contain the venue without major problems if we bring in enough manpower.”

  “All this time and effort expended on my behalf . . .” Her words trailed off. “If I cancel the speech at this late date, though, it will be a major problem for the organization.”

  “Then we’ll deal with it.”

  “I’m sorry for causing all this trouble.”

  She was hunched into the corner of her seat, looking so alone and vulnerable that Coop had an unsettling urge to entwine his fingers with hers in a gesture of comfort and support.

  He restrained the unprofessional impulse by engaging his hands in another task. Pulling out his BlackBerry, he punched in some numbers.

  “You’re not the one causing the trouble.” He directed his next comment to Mark. “I’ll check with the agents on duty at Monica’s.”

  “Good idea.”

  After a clipped conversation, Coop slipped the device back into the holder on his belt.

  “Everything okay?” Mark shot him a glance in the rearview mirror.

  “Yes. We’re good.” Coop checked on Monica. She was still pressed into the corner of her seat, her head angled toward the window.

  “Hey.” He said the word softly, and dismissing protocol considerations he rested his fingers on the back of her hand. It was like ice.

  She twisted toward him, her gaze dropping to their connected hands. For an instant he thought she was going to pull away. When she didn’t, he continued.

  “None of this is your fault, Monica. We’ll deal with the speech. After that, we’d like you to reconsider the safe house. That will allow us to give you the best possible protection until this is all over. Will you think about it?”

  She regarded him for a few moments. He saw a chill ripple through her before she gave a slow nod. “Okay.”

  “Good.” Resisting the urge to give her hand an encouraging squeeze, he smiled and retracted his fingers. “Crank up the heat a little, would you, Mark?”

  “Sure.”

  His partner complied, and the chill in the car dissipated. But Monica still felt cold.

  All except for the back of her hand where Coop’s fingers had rested.

  “Will it bother you guys if I do some cooking?”

  At the question, Coop and Mark stopped discussing the hotel floor plan spread out on the kitchen table and turned to Monica, who stood in the doorway. She’d exchanged the burgundy wool suit she’d worn to church for snug jeans and a soft green sweater that matched her eyes, Coop noted in a swift, appreciative scan.

  “Not at all. Are we in your way?” He gestured toward the large sheets of paper.

  “No.” She spared the material no more than a quick look. Turning, she busied herself at the counter. “I thought I’d make chicken divan for dinner, unless you prefer pizza again.”

  “You don’t have to feed us, Monica.”

  She stopped what she was doing but didn’t respond at once to Coop’s comment. He raised a brow at Mark, who shrugged.

  “When I’m on edge, it helps to cook. Unless you’d rather order out.” She said it without turning around, her tone subdued.

  People coped with stress in a lot of ways, especially when confined. And Coop thought he’d seen them all. Video games, TV, solitaire, crossword puzzles—and less innocent means of escape like drinking and smoking. His own coping mechanism was reading. Mark preferred listening to music.

  Cooking was a new one for him. But he was open to whatever worked. Monica was wound as tight as a spring. If she didn’t find some way to release her tension, she’d snap. He’d witnessed it on a number of occasions. And he didn’t want to see it happen to her.

  “If we’re taking a vote, chicken divan gets mine,” Mark spoke up. “I’ve eaten enough pizza for two lifetimes.”

  “I’ll second that,” Coop added.

  He watched her shoulders ease a fraction. And kept watching her until Mark kicked him under the table and spoke in a low, amused voice.

  “Focus, buddy. We were talking about securing access points, remember?”

  For the rest of the afternoon, Coop did his best to give their operations plan his full attention. He even positioned himself with his back to Monica. But his awareness of her was an almost tangible thing, disconcerting in its intensity. And totally beyond his experience.

  No woman had ever affected him this way—and he had no clue why Monica did. Yes, she was beautiful. And smart. And sensitive. She seemed like a kind, caring, ethical person. Yet he’d met other women who shared many of those qualities, and he’d given them no more than a passing glance.

  But for whatever reason, Monica Callahan appealed to him in a way no other woman ever had.

  And that scared him.

  He could deal with things he understood. But he didn’t have a clue why he was drawn to her. There was no logical explanation for the aura of . . . specialness . . . about her. And he didn’t like things he couldn’t explain. Puzzles without solutions. Riddles without answers. Missions with too many unknowns. Situations requiring faith rather than facts for resolution.

  “If you guys are at a breaking point and can clear the table, I’ll put dinner out.”

  At Monica’s comment, Mark turned to her with a grin. “Breaking point or not, I can’t resist those aromas any longer. I’m operating on the fumes of that sausage and egg muffin Nick delivered this morning, along with a lecture on our bad eating habits. And I think hunger is undermining my partner’s concentration, anyway.”

  Checking to confirm that Coop got his double entendre, Mark gave his partner a smirk and began to gather up the papers littering the table.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Coop rose as Mark finished clearing the table and headed for the living room to deposit their afternoon’s work.

  “You could set the table, if you like.” Monica wiped her hands on a towel and shed her oversized apron as she spoke. “The plates are in the cabinet on the far right and the utensils are in the drawer by the coffeemaker.”

  While he set three places, Coop assessed Monica. The strain around her mouth had eased, and the almost palpable tension he’d felt emanating from her earlier had dissipated. Most of her makeup, light to begin with, had been wiped clean by the steam from the stove, leaving only an endearing streak of flour on her cheek.

  As she moved back and forth between the counter and the table with appetizing platters of food, Coop realized she’d plunged into her cooking with a vengeance. She deposited a large casserole of chicken divan, the meat and broccoli laced with a creamy sauce, in the center. A heaping bowl of mashed potatoes and an oversized bowl of salad shared
the remaining space with a basket of what appeared to be homemade biscuits. And a tray of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies was cooling on the counter.

  Stunned, he gave the food another quick survey. “You did all this in the past”—he checked his watch—“three hours?”

  “It’s nothing special. They’re all simple, basic recipes.”

  “Trust me, Monica.” Mark grinned at her as he reentered the kitchen and perused the table. “For two bachelors who subsist on fast food and Chinese takeout, this is a gourmet feast.”

  “I’m not sure I’d go that far. But it’s hearty, anyway. Let’s eat while it’s hot.”

  “You don’t have to twist my arm. Milady.” Mark pulled out a chair for her with a flourish, eliciting a giggle.

  A giggle.

  Coop could hardly get Monica to smile, let alone giggle. He shot Mark a dark look as the other man sat down.

  “Hey, buddy, are you going to join us or what?” Mark’s expression was all innocence.

  In silence, Coop took the remaining place.

  “Give me a sec, okay?” Without waiting for a response, Monica bowed her head and closed her eyes. Her prayer was brief, but it was long enough for Coop to pin Mark with another narrow-eyed warning—which the other man ignored.

  “Okay, this is family style, so help yourself,” Monica invited, raising her head.

  After they’d all filled their plates and taken the edge off their hunger, she brought the conversation around to her speech.

  “Now that you’ve had a chance to review the hotel layout and talk about security, are you comfortable with the setup?”

  “We’ll know more after we go over there tonight and check it out in person,” Coop responded.

  “But what’s your initial assessment?”

  “It should be doable with minimal risk,” Mark said. “We’ll have agents from the local office planted in the audience and among the hotel staff, and Coop and I will stick close.”

  “There’s a food service entrance near the stage that has outside egress, and we’ll use that coming and going,” Coop added. “It will allow us to enter and exit without going through the crowd.”

  “I usually use a cordless mike and move around.”

  “We’d prefer you to stay behind the podium this time.” Mark took a second helping of mashed potatoes.

  She toyed with her salad. “I guess you don’t want me wandering through the audience during the Q&A, either.”

  “No,” the two men replied in unison.

  “See? Great minds think alike.” Mark grinned and lifted a forkful of potatoes. “Did you put garlic in these?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. They’re great.”

  “Thanks.” Monica smiled and picked up the basket. “Have another biscuit too.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Mark helped himself. “These are fabulous.”

  “Coop?” She turned toward him.

  “Thanks. I second my partner’s compliment. These remind me of the biscuits my stepmother makes.”

  “I didn’t know you had a stepmother.” She set the basket down and gave him her full attention.

  A man could drown in those green pools she called eyes, he reflected, forcing himself to concentrate on buttering his biscuit. “My father remarried when I was sixteen. I was only home for another year before I left for college, but I remember her great meals. And I always enjoyed the care packages of homemade cookies and brownies she used to send me in college.”

  “You never told me that.”

  Coop responded to Mark’s comment with a shrug. He’d never told anyone about his stepmother’s kindness. He didn’t talk about personal history. Or he hadn’t until the past twenty-four hours. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Hey, brownies and cookies are always a big deal.” Mark winked at Monica, eliciting a soft chuckle.

  Although Coop wasn’t thrilled with Mark’s flirty attitude toward the woman sitting between them, he supposed it could be a diversionary tactic. Mark was as attuned to nuances as Coop was, and Monica’s stress was obvious. Often in tense situations they used lighthearted banter to put someone at ease. That was probably what Mark was doing.

  He hoped.

  Coop’s BlackBerry began to vibrate, and he pulled it from its holder. Monica’s smile faded as she watched him, and the tense atmosphere their casual dinner had managed to lighten grew heavy again.

  “Are the reinforcements here?” Mark laid his napkin on the table as Coop ended the brief call.

  “They will be in two minutes.” Coop downed the other half of his biscuit in one large bite and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “We’ll help you clean up before we head out,” he told Monica. Rising, he reached for one of the bowls and her plate, noting that despite all she’d cooked, she’d eaten very little herself.

  “No, that’s okay. It will give me something to do.” She stood and gestured toward the cookies. “Do you have time for dessert?”

  “We always have time for dessert.” Mark grinned and answered for both of them. “And my guess is our replacements wouldn’t mind having some, either, while we brief them.”

  The doorbell rang, and Coop moved toward the hall, Mark behind him. “Stay here,” he told Monica.

  Mark dropped back once they entered the foyer while Coop checked the peephole. A pair of tall, formidable-looking men in suits stood on the other side, one with black hair and a rugged, intense face, the other with dark auburn hair and penetrating eyes. Two of the HRT’s top operators. Les wasn’t taking any chances with this gig, Coop reflected as he swung the door open.

  The men stepped inside quickly, and as Mark holstered his Glock they exchanged greetings.

  “Have you guys been fully briefed?” Coop tossed the question over his shoulder, leading the way to the kitchen.

  “We reviewed the intel on the drive down,” the auburn-haired man replied.

  “Good. We’ll bring you up to speed in a minute.” Coop ushered them into the kitchen. “Monica, let me introduce you to the night shift.”

  As Coop spoke, she turned and braced herself against the counter, gripping the edge.

  “Rick Hooper”—Coop tipped his head toward the dark-haired man—“and Shaun MacDonald . . . or Mac, as we call him.”

  Though her smile seemed forced, she moved forward and held out her hand.

  “I already told them they’re just in time for KP duty.” Mark grinned and gave her a wink as she greeted the newcomers.

  “He’s kidding, of course,” Monica assured them. “But you are in time for chocolate chip cookies and coffee, if that interests you.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks.” Mac flashed her a smile.

  The men helped themselves, disappearing into the living room one by one until only Coop was left.

  “We need a few minutes to sort through things,” he told her.

  She swallowed and gave a jerky nod. “I’ll stay out of your way.” Angling toward the sink, she busied herself with cleanup duties.

  Coop traced the rigid line of her shoulders, her tense posture mute testimony to her stress. As was the way she fumbled a bowl. It dropped into the sink, splashing her with soapy water.

  Snagging a dish towel, he moved forward and handed it to her in silence. As she dabbed at her face, he couldn’t tell whether the moisture around her eyes was water—or tears.

  “Monica.” He spoke softly, waiting until she looked up before continuing. “It will be okay.”

  She searched his eyes, as if seeking the truth. His demeanor must have soothed her, because after several seconds her features eased.

  “I’m just a little jumpy. But I trust you guys.”

  He managed to paste on a confident smile, but as he headed toward the living room he could only hope they deserved the faith she’d placed in them.

  Forty-five minutes later, when Coop reappeared in the kitchen, Monica folded her arms and faced him across the room.

  “Mark and I are heading over to check out
the hotel.” He snagged his jacket off the back of a chair and shrugged into it. “We’ll be back to relieve Rick and Mac at six tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay.”

  She watched as he settled his jacket on his shoulders, expecting him to leave at once. Instead, he hesitated, as if uncertain about something. Such behavior from a man who usually projected authority and confidence rattled her.

  “Is something wrong?” She braced herself.

  “I have some news.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “It may be good.”

  “That doesn’t sound very definitive.” She gave him a wary look.

  “I just talked to my boss in Quantico. It appears someone in the terrorist group responsible for the kidnappings is willing to sell information about the location of the hostages.”

  “Isn’t that good?”

  “If it’s authentic. The security people who analyzed the communication think there’s a high probability it’s legit. In all likelihood it came from an insider with his own agenda. But it could also be a trap.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your father has been designated as the courier for the money.”

  It took her only a couple of seconds to process that piece of information and reach the obvious conclusion. “The terrorists may be trying to lure him out of the embassy so they can . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  “It’s possible. He’s been told to come alone.”

  “Where?”

  “A crowded marketplace.”

  “Is he going to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a question you’d have to ask him.” He propped a shoulder against the door frame and slipped one hand into the pocket of his slacks. “I can place a call to the embassy if you want to talk to him.”

  A brief flicker of indecision delayed her response for a fraction of a second. “No.”

  “If you change your mind, let Rick or Mac know. They can put the call through.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once again he hesitated. “Are you okay?”

  He seemed as surprised by the soft question as she was.

  “Yes.” A tremor ran through her word, exposing the lie.