Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
Against All Odds (31 page)
Scooting to the edge of the bed, she steadied herself on the wall and stood. Her legs held. Barely. They shook as she lurched her way to the bathroom using the wall for support.
The leader let her pass, and to her relief didn’t stop her from closing the door. It was odd, the small favors you could be grateful for in the midst of a horrendous situation, she reflected.
Two minutes later, as she sank back onto the side of her bed, the leader pulled out his cell phone. After a couple of exchanges, he switched to English and moved beside her, pulling the knife out of the sheath on his belt.
Whatever strength she’d had in her legs fled. Her pulse tripled. The breath hitched in her throat. Was this the end already? Had her efforts to hone and practice phrases she could use in a phone conversation with her father been for nothing?
Lord, please, give me more time! I don’t want to die yet!
“A call is being made to your father. You will ask him to meet our demands. If you say one word that provides any information about where you are, you will not live past the phone call.” He leaned close and pressed the point of the knife to her throat, as he had earlier. “Do you understand?”
She gave a slight nod.
Satisfied, he depressed the speaker button and set the phone on the bed. “We are ready.”
“Place the call.” The instruction given on the other end of the line came through sharp and clear.
The leader knelt on the bed behind her and gripped her hair, pulling it to force her head back slightly. She felt the sharp point of the knife against her neck. When she swallowed, the tip pricked her skin. She was almost afraid to breathe.
Sixty seconds later, Monica heard her father’s voice. It sounded grainy and distant, but his anxiety and tension came through loud and clear.
“Hello?”
“Dad?” The word was little more than a croak.
“Monica? Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
This was it. She had to make every second count. Her captors could cut off the call at any moment.
“I’m a l-little banged up from the drive.” She struggled to supply her lungs with oxygen. “I’m ready to come home, Dad. Be like Tom Bodett and leave the l-light on for me, okay?”
The tip of the knife pushed deeper into her skin, and she gasped. She’d known the reference was risky. Had the terrorists recognized it? Her body rigid, she gripped the bedspread, bunching the fabric in her fingers.
“Monica? Monica, are you all right? Are they hurting you?”
The leader leaned close to her ear. “Tell him to meet our demands.”
They’d missed her reference.
Thank you, God!
Thank you, God!
“
I’m okay
.
I just w-want to come home.”
I’m okay
.
I just w-want to come home.”
“We’re working on that, honey.” Her father’s static-laced words came over the line. “I need you to tell us what your favorite comfort food is.”
Puzzled, Monica frowned. Why would her father ask that? Besides, he didn’t even know the answer.
Then the significance dawned. Coop must have suggested the question to verify it was her on the other end of the phone. Meaning he was okay. Relief coursed through her.
“M&Ms. Listen, I don’t want to end up like that journalist I saw on the Sunday night news program a couple of weeks ago, who was killed by terrorists. Do what they ask, okay?”
The leader snatched the phone from her ear, depressed the end button, and removed the knife from her throat. “Now we will see how much your father loves you.”
Leaving her on the side of the bed, he returned to his computer.
The hammering in her head had subsided earlier, while she’d lain unmoving. Now it resumed with a vengeance. Easing onto her back, Monica focused on the ceiling and tried to ride out the waves of pain.
At least she’d done her best in the phone call, she consoled herself. She’d come up with several clues, all couched in innocent-sounding phrases, and she’d managed to work all of them into the conversation. There was nothing else she could do.
Except pray that Coop and the HRT would decipher her message.
18
As the terrorists severed the connection, Coop rested his elbows on the table in the guest cottage and dropped his head into his hands, tuning out the follow-up dialogue taking place on the conference call. It had been Monica on the other end of the line, no question about it. And her shaky, faltering voice had twisted his gut into knots.
Yet some positives had come out of the call, he acknowledged, forcing the left side of his brain to engage. For one thing, they had confirmation she was alive. For another, she’d packed a lot of information into the brief exchange with her father. A few of her comments had struck him as odd, and he suspected she’d been trying to send a message.
“Did anyone get anything out of the call that could help us find my daughter?” David’s taut question pulled him back to the conversation.
“We need to hear it again. Bob, we’d like a transcript and a recording ASAP,” Les responded.
“Our technicians are already working on that. We should have it to you in minutes. Any initial thoughts?”
“The sound was pretty garbled. I suspect the call was piggybacked through a couple of cell phones, as we expected.” Mark doodled on a pad of paper in front of him, his expression pensive.
“I agree,” Les concurred.
“Did she give the correct answer to the comfort-food question?” David asked.
“Yes.” The analytical side of Coop’s brain was now firing on all cylinders. “She also made some interesting comments. I think there are clues embedded in them.”
“The remark about the drive was helpful,” Mark concurred. “If she was transported by car, our search radius is more restricted.”
“Possibly to within sixty minutes. I think her reference to the Sunday night news program was deliberate,” Coop said.
“That may be a stretch.” Les didn’t attempt to hide his skepticism. “Considering the ordeal she’s been through, there’s a good chance she’s not fully lucid. We all know what a trauma spike can do to victims.”
Coop had witnessed the phenomenon often. Casualties of violence often shut down or became incoherent and confused until the effects of the trauma subsided, rendering them useless in the initial investigation. And Monica was a prime candidate for a spike. She’d been drugged, injured, and kidnapped. Her life was in imminent danger. She would be fighting debilitating terror with every breath she took.
But she was strong. And Coop was convinced that despite all she’d been through, she’d worked hard to help herself in the only way she could. With words.
“I don’t buy it in this case,” Coop countered. “I think she was giving us leads.”
“I’d like to believe that.” David joined in the discussion. “And I think you’re right about the
60 Minutes
reference. What about that Tom Bodett allusion? Who is he?”
60 Minutes
reference. What about that Tom Bodett allusion? Who is he?”
“He’s been the spokesman for Motel 6 for years. That bit about leaving the light on was a direct lift from his tagline,” Mark supplied.
“You think they’re keeping her at a motel?” Incredulity raised the pitch of Les’s voice.
“I think it’s the only clue we have at the moment. And it’s not a bad plan from their point of view. Without Monica’s hint, motels wouldn’t even be on our radar screen.”
Once again, David Callahan sided with Coop. “I’m not an intelligence expert, but this makes sense. Monica is smart. And she knows words. My instincts tell me she chose the ones she used with very strategic intent.”
“Okay. We’ll check it out. Mark, Coop, stay on the line. Bob, Mr. Callahan, we’ll keep you apprised of our progress.”
After the Kabul connection went silent, Les spoke again. “I’ve been doing a computer search as we spoke. There’s one Motel 6 within a fifty-mile radius of Charlottesville. It’s in Harrisonburg. Thirty-four miles away. At sixty miles, they have locations in Fredericksburg and Ashland. None of their other motels would be reachable by car in less than an hour. Dennis can have agents in his different jurisdictions make the initial contact with the facilities.”
“This has to be handled with kid gloves,” Coop cautioned. “If the abductors get any inkling we’re on to them, this will get ugly very fast.”
“I’m sure he knows that. But I’ll remind him. I’m also going to put your team here on alert. If this pans out, I want them standing by for a rescue mission.”
“Mark and I could accompany the agent to the motel in Harrisonburg. It’s the closest one to Charlottesville and fits best with the sixty-minute time frame, assuming they took an indirect route as a precaution.”
“I’ll discuss it with Dennis and get back with you. Stand by.” Les ended the call.
“Monica did good.” Mark tossed out the comment as Coop slid his BlackBerry back onto his belt.
“Yeah.”
“She’s pretty amazing, considering all she’s been through.”
“Yeah.”
“My gut tells me this is going to turn out okay.”
“Not if this motel lead ends up being a wild goose chase.” Coop raked his fingers through his hair. “But it’s all we have. Other than a partial tire impression that suggests the abductors drove a midsize car, the ERT has come up with zip.”
“They’re still working the scene.”
“I’m not overly optimistic.” Coop stood. “Let’s pack up. There’s nothing else we can do here. I want to be ready to head to Harrisonburg once Les clears it with Dennis.”
Without waiting for a reply, he strode toward the bedroom. A couple of minutes later, Mark joined him.
As they gathered up their gear, Coop was grateful for Mark’s silence. He needed a chance to regroup after seeing the shocking picture of Monica, hearing her tremulous voice, feeling her fear. To find a way to deal with—and control—his roiling emotions.
But he had few coping mechanisms in his arsenal. Emotional involvement had never been an issue on a mission. Knowing it would compromise his ability to do his job, he’d steered a wide berth around that complication. To be an effective HRT operator, you needed absolute and complete focus. Personal feelings had to be put aside. Period.
This job, however, was different. This time he cared about the outcome not just as a dedicated professional, but as a man.
When this was over, when they found Monica—and they
would
find her—he needed to figure out how this woman had managed to infiltrate his soul in a handful of days.
would
find her—he needed to figure out how this woman had managed to infiltrate his soul in a handful of days.
But for now, he had to look at this as a job. He couldn’t afford to let emotion cloud his judgment. To save Monica, he needed to operate at top efficiency. To use the clues she’d given them to track her down.
And this time he didn’t intend to fail her.
A chilling wind whipped up the silty ground, and Sayed dipped his head as he passed the two guards at the entrance to the mud hut. He ducked through the doorway, casting an indifferent glance at the three hostages sleeping on mats on the drafty dirt floor. The older man’s cough was worse, he noted.
“All is well?” He directed the query to one of the two rifle-toting guards inside.
“Yes. They sleep. Perhaps for the last time.” The man smirked. “Tomorrow is a big day. And we are ready to follow your instructions.” He lifted the gun.
“Good. I have been called for a late meeting with Tariq. I am confident he will have some directives. Stay vigilant.” Sayed exited, sparing the hostages no further attention.
Once back in his quarters in the adjacent hut, he opened his cell phone and tapped in a series of numbers. As he waited for the call to go through, his lips curved into a slight smile. Tomorrow at this late hour he would be far away from the sand and cold and primitive conditions he’d endured for most of his fifty-nine years. No longer would he have to risk his life in the company of men he didn’t trust. His departure had been long in the planning, but the outcome would be worth the wait.
With the money David Callahan had delivered in the market, along with the funds he’d skimmed off the top of the opium-trading operation he oversaw for Tariq, Sayed could spend the rest of his life in comfort. The ten percent he’d paid his “accountant” to deposit the funds in an untraceable Swiss bank account had been money well spent. Likewise the small sum he’d paid the disenchanted Anis for information.
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