Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
Against All Odds (22 page)
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.
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.”
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.”
“Excellent.” After Nouri had dropped him off half a mile from the safe house last night, it had taken Zahir close to two hours to move into a concealed position close enough to afford a good view of the compound and to allow his mini shotgun mike to pick up verbal communication from the patrolling agents. Then he’d spent twelve long, cold hours in a tree observing and listening.
Nouri took a sip of his cinnamon spice latte and set the disposable cup on the wooden table. He liked his colleague’s style—quiet, competent, professional. Zahir did what he was asked to do without question or hesitation. A man like that was invaluable . . . even if he did have a few quirks.
“You do not have a large window.” Zahir’s comment was matter-of-fact.
“It is enough.” From his table in the corner of the coffee shop, Nouri scanned the room. At two in the afternoon, he had the place almost to himself. “There has been no activity in the master bedroom?”
“None that I can see. It remained dark all night.”
“That will be my access point. I will pick you up in thirty minutes.”
Ending the call, Nouri went back to perusing his computer screen, angling it more toward the back wall of the shop and away from any curious glances. It had been easy to circumvent the firewall at the safe house’s security monitoring firm, and the feed he’d tapped into from the cameras was excellent.
After watching it for much of the past twelve hours, he had a good sense of the level and pattern of protection being offered to David Callahan’s daughter. The perimeter was patrolled by four agents, the activity at the small guest house indicated it was being used as the command post, and two agents remained on duty in the main house at all times.
It was a tight net, but not impenetrable.
He also had a good feel for the entire compound, thanks to the satellite photo on Mapquest that had provided an excellent aerial image.
The layout of the main house hadn’t taken long to nail down, either. A web search had yielded the name of the owner, and that, in turn, had led him to a feature on the house in an architectural magazine two years ago. The photos were excellent . . . and the floor plan, while bare bones, did show room locations.
Thanks to the GPS devices still in the HRT operators’ luggage, Nouri also knew they had deposited their bags in the guest cottage. Meaning that’s where they were sleeping. He’d have found a way to work around it if they were staying in the main house, but their sleeping arrangement dovetailed nicely with his plans.
Last night, he’d saved two hours of the video feed from the security camera mounted on the corner of the tennis court—the one that panned the back of the house at regular intervals. It would be an easy matter to override the live feed when the time came. Unless the agent monitoring the cameras displayed remarkable diligence, Nouri doubted whether he would notice the quick blip on the screen or the date change in the bottom corner.
Closing down his laptop, he took a final sip of his latte. There were risks with this job. Big risks. One mistake, one miscalculation, could mean disaster.
But he didn’t intend to fail. Tariq believed in him. And Nouri believed in the cause. Since his father’s death and his uncle’s downfall at the hands of the Americans, his hate for the United States had grown exponentially. He’d chosen to work for the demise of the country from within its borders, and his success rate had been phenomenal. He didn’t lack for assignments from a variety of insurgent groups. And he took them all.
This job, however, was personal.
This job was vindication for his father and uncle.
Failure was not an option.
He would not make a mistake.
“Good morning, sir.” Salam entered David’s office and set a cup of coffee on the diplomat’s desk.
“You’re here early.”
“It is difficult to sleep these days.”
“Yes, it is.” David rubbed a weary hand down his face. “At noon tomorrow they start killing hostages. That gives us only twenty-nine hours.”
“Your government has discovered no leads?”
“No.” Locating the hostages had been given the highest priority by every pertinent U.S. security agency, but there was simply nothing to go on.
“Perhaps the informer will decide to follow through on his bargain.”
“I’m not counting on that at this point. It’s been almost two days since I delivered the money. But I suppose we can always hope for a miracle.”
His phone began to ring, and Salam exited with a slight bow. “I’ll get that for you, sir.”
Reaching for his coffee, David took a sip of the scalding brew. Not that he needed it to stay awake. Despite his sleepless night, the drumming tension in his pulse was producing more than enough adrenaline to keep him alert.
The intercom buzzed, and David picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Lindsay Barnes from the secretary of state’s office is on line one, sir.”
“Thank you.” Setting his coffee down, David tapped the number to take the call from the secretary’s aide. “Good morning, Lindsay.”
“Good morning, sir. The secretary will be leaving Iraq tomorrow morning at five and would like to detour for a meeting with you at Bagram to discuss the hostage situation in person before heading back to Washington. His ETA is about eight hundred hours.”
The secretary’s impromptu visit didn’t surprise David. The hostage situation was being given front-page coverage in every U.S. newspaper, and the government’s response was being scrutinized by the American public. Each day that passed without a resolution saw the president’s ratings slip in the polls. The fallout from the deaths of three American hostages could cause irreparable political damage to a man who had his eye on a second term.
The meeting at the U.S. air base thirty miles north of Kabul would be a last-ditch effort to discuss possible solutions and damage control. David would have liked to think it was being prompted by humanitarian concerns, but he’d been in the business too long to believe that was the only motivation for the summons to meet with the secretary. The president was a good, decent man—but the political pressure in this situation would be immense.
“I’ll be waiting for him, Lindsay.”
“I’ll let him know. And I’ll alert you if there are any changes to his itinerary.”
As David replaced the receiver, he reached for his coffee again. To his surprise, he noted a tremor in his hand. Odd. He’d weathered these kinds of situations in the past without any visible sign of nerves.
But he’d never had a personal stake in one, either.
The president might be worried about political fallout. David was more worried about the impending loss of life. And about his daughter.
Monica might be ensconced in a safe house, but “safe” was a relative term. And until this crisis was over, he wasn’t going to rest easy.
“Mind if I join you? I’ll bring popcorn.”
Turning away from the TV screen, Monica found Coop grinning at her from the doorway to the hearth room, waving a bag of microwaveable kernels.
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