Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
Against All Odds (5 page)
“We’ll keep trying.” Coop could picture Les squinting as the commander chomped on his cigar.
“Do that. White House or no White House, I can’t afford to send a bunch of operators down there just because this woman is being unreasonable.”
“Understood. But if she won’t budge, we’ll need some backup. We thought the local field office might be able to handle perimeter surveillance.”
“They’re not going to like that.”
“I know.” All HRT operators started their FBI careers as field agents, and Coop was well aware that the assignment he was proposing would take precious time away from an agent’s regular cases. “But I didn’t think going to local law enforcement for help would be an option.”
“It isn’t. This case is classified. We have to handle it ourselves.”
The line went quiet, and Coop waited in silence. Les’s cigar was getting a workout this morning.
“Okay. Regroup with the lady. Try again to get her to see reason. In the meantime, I’ll talk to the Richmond SAC and lay some groundwork.”
Since the special agent in charge of the Richmond field office had already sent two men out this morning to Monica Callahan’s house, Coop had a feeling he wouldn’t be surprised by the follow-up call. Nor would he be pleased.
“I’ll be back in touch once we have a firm ops plan in place.” A dark brown delivery van stopped two houses down, and Coop shifted position to keep it in sight. Despite the familiar logo on the side and the driver’s standard uniform, he watched as the man jogged up to a door, deposited a package, rang the bell, and jogged back.
“Everything okay there at the moment?”
“Yes.” Coop kept the van in sight until it disappeared around the corner at the end of the street. “My initial impression is that security at the house is pathetic, but we’ll do a more thorough check and remedy what we can.”
“Get back to me as soon as you have a plan.”
“Will do.” Coop slid his BlackBerry back into the holder on his belt and did one more visual scan of the neighborhood before slipping back inside.
As he turned from bolting the door, Monica was coming down the hall from the kitchen, carrying a tray laden with mugs, a coffeepot, cream and sugar, and a plate of coffeecake.
“Let me take that.” He moved toward her and reached for the tray.
“I can handle it.” She didn’t relinquish her grip.
“I’m sure you can.” He smiled, holding tight. Logic hadn’t worked with her. Maybe charm would. “But I try to be a gentleman.”
She considered him for several seconds as he braced for the already-too-familiar independent lift of her chin and prepared to counter whatever argument she raised.
Instead, to his surprise, her lips softened and she returned his smile, releasing the tray.
“Thanks. You can put it on the coffee table.”
Without waiting for a response, she preceded him into the living room. As she leaned over to move aside the bowl of M&Ms, he couldn’t help admire the way her snug jeans showed off her slim waist and trim hips.
A discreet cough from Mark redirected Coop’s attention. His partner grinned as his gaze flicked back and forth between Coop and Monica, his silent commentary more eloquent than words. Had they been alone, Coop would have responded with an acerbic comeback. As it was, he did his best to ignore the other man.
“Is that enough room?”
Once more, Coop switched focus. Monica was watching him, her expression unreadable as she waited for him to deposit the tray on the table.
“Yes.” He took his time setting it down, willing the hot flush on his neck to subside.
“Help yourself.” She gestured to the tray as she poured herself a cup of coffee and kicked off her shoes. Tucking her feet under her, she settled into the same chair she’d vacated earlier.
Mark didn’t wait for a second invitation. He filled a mug and took a generous piece of the cake.
“Did you two have breakfast?” Monica queried as Mark dug into the cake.
“Yes. Though you wouldn’t know it by the way my partner is wolfing that down.” Coop sent a pointed glance toward Mark as he poured some coffee.
“It happens to be very good coffeecake,” Mark defended himself. “Tastes homemade.”
“It is.” Monica took a sip of her coffee.
“I’m impressed.” Mark savored another bite. “Compared to that fast-food breakfast we ingested on our way down from Quantico, this is a real treat.”
“Quantico?” Monica’s hand stilled, and she looked from one to the other. “Isn’t there an FBI office in Richmond?”
“Yes. But we’re not field agents.” Coop put a piece of cake on a napkin and took his seat. “We’re with the Hostage Rescue Team.”
“Hostage Rescue Team.” She repeated the name slowly. “I don’t understand.” She reached for a handful of M&Ms, and Coop noted the slight tremor in her fingers.
“The HRT is a civilian counterterrorism unit. We provide tactical resolution in hostage and high-risk law enforcement situations,” Mark told her, spewing the official description of the unit.
She popped a couple of the M&Ms into her mouth, crunching down on them before she spoke. “I’m still confused. I’m not a hostage.”
“And we want to keep it that way.” As Coop leaned over to put his mug on the coffee table, the jacket of his suit gapped open to reveal the Glock tucked into a holster on his belt. The firearm caught—and held—Monica’s attention, he noted. She popped some more M&Ms as he discreetly adjusted his jacket.
“The HRT also provides dignitary protection in special situations,” Mark added.
“I’m not a dignitary.”
“Your father is. Meaning you are too, by association. And the White House has concurred with his high-risk assessment. That’s why we’re here.” Coop leaned forward again and clasped his hands together. “Our mission is straightforward, Ms. Callahan. Protect you until the hostage situation is resolved. The terrorists either aren’t aware of—or don’t care about—your estrangement from your father.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know about that?”
“The bare facts were in your file. Nothing more. I assume your father mentioned your . . . rift . . . when he arranged for security.”
“Rift doesn’t begin to cover it.” She gripped her mug with both hands and stared into the dark depths. “My father has played almost no part in my life for the past twenty-four years. And he played only a small role prior to that. I haven’t even seen him since he attended my mother’s funeral ten years ago.”
Her words were cold and threaded with bitterness and resentment. But Coop had caught the flicker of pain in her eyes, the momentary vulnerability, before she looked down. And he could relate. He’d had his own father troubles, and he knew what a lasting impact that could have. Monica Callahan’s file had painted a picture of a successful, confident, has-her-act-together woman. While that seemed to be accurate as far as it went, he suspected it was incomplete. Whatever had happened between her and her father might be in her distant past, but it continued to cloud her present.
“We’ll do our best to disrupt your life as little as possible,” Coop promised, gentling his voice. “And we’re sorry for the inconvenience.”
Several seconds ticked by. The elegant curve of her throat quivered as she swallowed, and when she looked up, her features had softened.
“Actually, I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit hostile. I’m not happy my father’s problems have cascaded down to me, but that’s not your fault. You’re simply trying to do your job. That said, I can’t disappear without disrupting a lot of people’s lives. All I can do is lay low as much as possible and try to minimize your hassles. Can you live with that?”
It wasn’t ideal, but at this point Coop was willing to take whatever cooperation they could get. A quick glance at Mark confirmed that his partner felt the same way.
“It’s a start. Why don’t we talk about your schedule for the next few days? That way we can assess risk and make some recommendations.”
“Let me get my calendar.” She rose, grabbed another handful of M&Ms, and headed down the hall.
Once she disappeared, Mark leaned toward Coop and spoke in a low tone. “At least she didn’t throw us out.”
“True. But it’s not going to be easy. We’ll still need local backup.”
“Is Les taking care of it?”
“Yes. He’s not happy about it, though. And the field office isn’t going to be, either.”
“Tough. Unless she’s willing to move out of this house, we can’t handle security on our own.”
“Agreed. In the meantime, we need to keep pushing for the safe house.”
“Why do I think the lady isn’t going to bend on that?”
Frowning, Coop tapped one finger against the arm of his chair. “It might help if we knew what the problem is between her and her father.”
“Maybe.” Mark cocked his head. “Why don’t you try turning on that charm again? It seemed to be very persuasive with the tray in the hall.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m more than half serious. And my keen observation skills tell me it wouldn’t require much acting on your part to feign some interest.”
The hot flush surged again on Coop’s neck. “You’re the one who called her a babe in the car.”
“True. But our reactions in person were different. I noticed her assets. You salivated.”
“I don’t think I’m going to respond to that.”
“No response is necessary. The evidence speaks for itself.” He flashed a brief grin, and then his demeanor grew more serious. “But work on the safe house, okay?”
An odd inflection in Mark’s voice put Coop on alert. “You sound worried.”
“I am. You know how you said in the car you had bad feelings about this assignment? Well, they must be catching. In my opinion, the faster we can make Monica Callahan disappear, the better off everyone will be.”
An ominous chill settled over Coop. In the three years he’d been paired with Mark on missions, he couldn’t remember a single occasion when both of them had been unnerved by a job. And he heartily concurred with Mark’s conclusion. They needed to get Ms. Callahan out of sight. Sooner rather than later.
Only the lady wasn’t interested in disappearing.
Maybe he’d have to resort to charm after all, Coop speculated. That wasn’t a strategy he often used in this job.
But Mark was right in his assessment on that front too. Turning on the charm for Monica Callahan wouldn’t be any hardship.
None at all.
4
She was going stir-crazy.
Only nine hours into this . . . arrangement . . . and she was ready to climb the walls.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Monica rose from the desk in her home office and prowled around the small room, feeling like a caged animal. Or worse. At least animals in cages had a view of the world outside. In her cage, every shade, blind, and drape had been drawn, shutting out the weak February sun and casting a pall of gloom over her house—and her mood.
She’d holed up most of the day in her office, telling the two men who’d taken over her home that she needed to work. And that was true. Unfortunately, she’d accomplished a big fat zero. Although she’d tried her best to brainstorm themes for her next book, the surreal events of the day had rendered concentration impossible. Instead, she’d cleaned out files, sharpened pencils, rearranged the closet . . . anything to keep from thinking about her present situation.
Stopping at the window, she cracked the mini blinds just enough to peer out. Everything looked normal. The low-wattage dusk-to-dawn lantern attached to the back of her house faintly illuminated her small brick patio, revealing the neatly arranged wrought aluminum table and chairs, now under prudent cover for the winter.
Beyond the edge of the patio, darkness had claimed her yard. Once she’d considered nighttime to be a quiet, serene interlude. That had changed the instant the FBI appeared on her doorstep. Tonight the darkness took on ominous tones, shrouding her yard in an inky, menacing cloak.
Thanks to her father.
A shiver ran through her, and Monica dropped into the overstuffed easy chair beside her desk. Old and decrepit, its blue damask faded and worn, the piece was long overdue for the junk heap. But she’d salvaged it from her mother’s apartment after Elaine Callahan died far too young of cancer. It was one of the few pieces she hadn’t donated to charity or discarded.
Monica closed her eyes and rested her head against the familiar, lumpy back. Here, in the spot that always reminded her of the comfort and security of her mother’s arms, she found a small measure of peace. In the succession of exotic locations she’d called home as a child, this chair had been the one constant, the refuge to which she retreated at the end of the day, climbing onto her mother’s lap to listen to bedtime stories and words of wisdom.
“Forgiveness is hard, honey. But it’s what God calls us to. Besides, as some wise person once said, holding a grudge is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. It hurts you a lot more than it hurts them.”
Other books
Dragon Dodgers (Wounds in the Sky Prequels Book 1) by V. R. Cardoso
In The Spur of Heath (The Spur Series Book 1) by Sydney Ledger
Disobeying the Marshal by Lauri Robinson
The Job (Volume One) by Dawn Robertson
The Sinister Mr. Corpse by Jeff Strand
The Winter Wedding by Abby Clements
Santa Fe Woman by Gilbert Morris
Requiem in Vienna by J. Sydney Jones
The Oxford dictionary of modern quotations by Tony Augarde
Stronger by Misty Provencher
