Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
Against All Odds (38 page)
Trying to balance the scales of justice so the grown-up bad guys of the world didn’t win was one of the reasons he’d joined the FBI.
Except at this moment, as he regarded Monica’s battered face and prepared to pass on the information Les had shared, he felt more like Joey Brummett.
“Monica, before I check on the officer, we need to talk about a couple of things.”
She searched his eyes, her own filled with apprehension. “Okay.”
He propped one hip on the edge of her bed, taking care to jostle it as little as possible, and kept her hand in his firm clasp. “We used a fiber-optic camera in the air duct to monitor the activity in the motel room where you were held, and we saw one of the abductors touch you in . . . an inappropriate manner.” Soft color suffused her cheeks, and a shudder rippled through her. He tightened his grip, his gaze flicking to the ring of bruises on her wrist before it locked on hers. “Did he do anything else to you?”
“No. He just . . . touched me.” Her reply came out in a whisper, and she shuddered again.
“Were you unconscious at all?”
“Not after we got to the motel.”
He let out a long, slow breath as the tension in his shoulders abated slightly. But not much. He still had a difficult task ahead.
“I have some news from Afghanistan.” He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, wishing there was some way to break this gently. But the harsh fact couldn’t be softened.
“The hostages . . . did the terrorists . . .” Her complexion paled and her voice trailed off.
“No. As far as I know, they’ll be okay for another couple of hours. This news is about your father.”
“Did he have the meeting with the secretary of state? What did they decide?”
“He never made it to the meeting, Monica.” He took a fortifying breath. “His motorcade was hit by a roadside bomb.”
What little healthy color had survived in her cheeks disappeared, leaving the ugly bruises stark against her white skin.
“He’s being treated at an army field hospital and will be airlifted to the military hospital in Germany as soon as he’s stable.”
“He’s alive, then.” Her words came out choked.
“Yes. But he is very, very critical.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. One leaked out to trail down her cheek, and Coop brushed it away with a gentle finger.
“We were going to have dinner together. In Washington.” Her voice choked.
His own throat tightened as he searched her stricken face. He wished he could promise her everything would turn out all right. But the best he could do was hold her hand. Through whatever lay ahead.
“I’m going to Germany, Coop.”
Taken aback by her startling announcement, he shook his head. “You’re in no condition to travel, Monica.”
“I can make it.” She squeezed his hand, her eyes reflecting a compelling urgency. “Don’t you see? He went into that marketplace for me. I have to be there for him. Will you help me make the arrangements?”
He wanted to refuse. Every protective instinct in his body urged him to shelter this woman from further trauma. To tuck her away in a safe, quiet place where she could rest and decompress and heal.
Yet he understood her feelings. Saw the resolve in her eyes. And knew she’d find a way to make the trip.
Suddenly the curtain was pushed aside and a white-coated figure walked in. Coop retreated to the corner of the cubicle, grateful for the interruption. And hoping Monica might have a change of heart.
But when their gazes met, the determination in her eyes told him it was a lost cause. She was going to Germany—with or without his help.
22
Why wasn’t Nouri answering?
Tariq pressed the end button on his cell phone, his brow furrowed. Since learning that David Callahan had been injured, he’d been too busy trying to get information on the diplomat’s condition to check in with his nephew or Sayed until now. Nor had they bothered him. The two men shared that worthy trait. They let him initiate contact unless they had an urgent matter to discuss.
But they always answered their phones when he called.
Nouri’s silence unnerved him more than Mahmud’s treachery. He didn’t doubt his nephew’s loyalty or diligence. There had to be a good reason he wasn’t responding. And Tariq suspected it didn’t bode well for their operation.
He punched in Sayed’s number next. With the noon deadline a mere two hours away, the hostage guardian would be awaiting instructions.
As he waited for Sayed to pick up, Tariq considered his options. The most he’d been able to find out about Callahan was that the diplomat had survived the blast and would be transported out of the country for treatment. No one had been able to confirm if he was conscious, but on the off chance he was, he would be in no condition to negotiate.
That left Tariq with two choices. Extend the deadline on killing the hostages, or let it stand. He was undecided which option would serve him better.
The phone continued to ring, and Tariq frowned. After five more hollow intonations, he hung up.
Why would two of his key people not answer his calls on this critical morning?
The phone began to vibrate in his hand, and he checked the caller ID. One of his sources in Kabul, who was trying to ferret out information about Callahan’s condition.
“Yes? You have news?”
“Not of a medical nature. But the Taliban has just claimed responsibility for this morning’s bombing. They say they planted the bomb weeks ago when the American vice president was supposed to travel that road. After he cancelled his trip, they waited for an opportunity to take out another high-level official. It seems they found out about David Callahan’s visit with the secretary of state and chose him as their target.”
Stunned, Tariq stared at the dingy wall in the sparsely furnished bedroom of the hovel that had served as his home and command center for the past few days. The Taliban was responsible for the bomb?
“Hissar? Are you still there?”
“Yes. You will be compensated for the information.” He stabbed the end button.
How ironic, Tariq mused. Mahmud had died for a crime he didn’t commit. Yet he felt no remorse. He hadn’t trusted the man anyway. The disruption in his plans caused him more distress than his lieutenant’s unjust demise. Yet even that was overridden by worry over his unanswered phone calls.
Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones.
Moving across the room, Tariq opened the door to the living area, intending to summon Anis. They needed to switch locations again, and Anis handled those details. At least the man had learned not to interrupt him, to wait until he was summoned. There might be hope for him yet.
But the room was deserted. A quick glance confirmed that Anis had not prepared tea nor paid his daily visit to a bakery to pick up the flat bread sprinkled with cumin seeds that Tariq favored for breakfast.
The silence in the apartment was unnatural, and the tingle of unease that had started at the base of his spine suddenly zipped to every nerve ending. Tariq could almost smell the danger. It was imperative he leave. At once.
But his instincts had kicked in too late. As he strode toward the door, it burst off its hinges, and he lifted his hands to shield his face from the splintering wood. Two seconds later, the room erupted with noise and light. The scene froze in his vision, like a snapshot, and he swayed, struggling to regain his equilibrium.
After the noise and light abated and the freeze frame came back to life, the scene had shifted. Half a dozen American soldiers surrounded him, their automatic weapons pointed at his heart.
In the blink of an eye, he understood three things.
He wasn’t going to die. If the soldiers had meant to kill him, he’d be dead already.
He had been betrayed.
And his dream of regaining power was history.
From the corner of the tiny curtained cubicle where he’d wedged himself, Coop observed the doctor’s conversation with Monica. He hoped the physician would discourage her when he heard her plans.
“Considering how this could have turned out, you are one lucky young woman.” The man scanned a printout as he spoke. Like many trauma doctors, he looked permanently sleep deprived. There were deep creases around his eyes, and Coop suspected the prominent gray in his dark hair was premature. “Mild concussion. You may have a headache on and off for the next couple of weeks. An over-the-counter pain reliever should help.”
He flipped to the next sheet of paper. “Nose is bruised but not broken. Six stitches on your chin. The IV is helping with the dehydration, but we need you to keep drinking fluids too.”
“What did they drug me with?”
“Chloroform.” Coop supplied the answer.
She shifted her attention to him. “Isn’t that kind of old-fashioned?”
“It does the job.”
“It also made me sick.”
“The concussion contributed to the nausea too,” the doctor interjected. “You threw up?”
“Several times.”
“That’s another reason you were dehydrated.” He shuffled the reports together. “We’re ready to move you to a regular room. I’ll check with you in the morning, and if everything looks good, we’ll release you.”
As he prepared to exit, Coop realized that Monica didn’t intend to tell him about her travel plans. He stepped forward. “Ms. Callahan is considering a trip to Germany, Doctor.”
He sensed her surprise. Understood her displeasure at his interference. Ignored it.
“When?” The physician directed the question to his patient.
“As soon as possible.”
“You need a few days to rest and recuperate before you consider major travel.”
“It’s an emergency, Doctor. I don’t have a few days.”
“We’ll discuss it again in the morning.” It was obvious the man wasn’t used to having patients balk at his instructions. “In the meantime, get some sleep—if you can. Hospitals aren’t the quietest places.”
Monica didn’t even wait for the drape to settle back into place after the doctor exited before nailing Coop. “You aren’t going to help me make the arrangements, are you?”
“I didn’t say that.” He moved back beside her. “But you’re in no shape to travel.”
“I need to do this, Coop. If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who will.” Despite her prone position, he caught the slight stubborn tilt of her chin.
The black-haired nurse pushed the curtain aside to admit an orderly, once more interrupting their conversation. It was like Grand Central Station in here, Coop thought in frustration.
“Okay, we’ve got a nice, private room all ready with a very hot-looking man guarding the door. And another one here. You must rate.” She directed her next comment to Coop. “You can come up after she’s settled. Room 312. Give us fifteen minutes. And there’s a guy in the hall looking for you.”
Mark, Coop figured.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes, and we’ll finish our discussion,” Coop told Monica.
“Midnight is no time for discussions.” The nurse shooed Coop out. “This woman needs some sleep.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Monica kept her gaze fixed on Coop.
He watched while they wheeled her toward an elevator, then headed for the waiting room.
“Everything okay?” Nick turned toward him as he exited the restricted area.
“Yeah. No permanent damage.” Of a physical nature, anyway. “They’re moving her to a room.”
“I know. My partner for the night is already up there.”
“Is Mark here?”
“In the waiting room.”
“Thanks.”
“Both of you need to get some sleep. Two of us are on security detail, and I can promise you no one will bother her tonight. I plan to stick very close.”
A bone-deep weariness was settling in, and Coop knew Nick was right. There was nothing more he could do here, and Monica would be in good hands with the two agents standing guard.
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