Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
Against All Odds (19 page)
“When did this arrive?” David pushed aside his lunch and sat back in his desk chair to stare at the message Salam had just handed him.
“Half an hour ago. Intelligence had it transcribed and sent a copy over.” Salam lifted the tape player in his hand. “Do you want to hear it?”
“No. This tells me all I need to know.” He read the words again.
We have given you sufficient time and warnings. You have forty-eight hours to meet our demands, or we will begin killing the hostages one by one. The first will die at noon on Thursday.
And the next time we target your daughter, the blood will be hers.
“Get Les Coplin on the line.”
“Yes, sir.” With a slight bow, Salam exited David’s office.
Fighting down his panic, David tapped a finger on his desk. Forty-eight hours. The ultimatum they’d been waiting for since the day of the kidnappings had finally come. And he didn’t doubt the terrorists would follow through on their threats.
He’d pinned his hopes for a resolution on their informant, praying he or she would follow through once the money was delivered. But thirty-two hours had elapsed, and no information had been supplied. It seemed the U.S. had been duped to the tune of three million dollars.
Yet if he had it to do again, he’d recommend the same response. It wasn’t a great surprise that the informer had deceived them, but there had always been a chance he or she would honor the deal—and that chance, however slight, had justified the risk. Now that it hadn’t panned out, however, they were left with only two options: meet the terrorists’ demands in the hope of saving lives, or refuse to be blackmailed and watch innocent people die.
Including his daughter.
Unless the HRT did a superlative job.
Monica seemed to trust the men who had been assigned to guard her. But David wasn’t that generous. They might be good at what they did, but so were the terrorists. And the kidnappers had one significant tactical advantage over the HRT operators.
They were ruthless.
No sooner had Coop drifted to sleep in the safe house than his BlackBerry began to vibrate.
It figured.
As his adrenaline surged, he grabbed the device off the nightstand and checked the caller ID. Les. They’d talked earlier, while Monica was settling into her room, and his boss had signed off for the night. A new development must have prompted this 2:00 a.m. call.
“Coop here.”
“Callahan heard from the terrorists. Forty-eight hours and they start killing hostages.”
Closing his eyes, Coop sucked in a sharp breath. “I take it there’s no word from the informer.”
“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.
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