Against All Odds

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hannon, Irene.
Against all odds : a novel / Irene Hannon.
p. cm.—(Heroes of Quantico ; bk. 1)

ISBN 978-0-8007-3310-0 (pbk.)

1. United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Fiction. 2. Government
investigators—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.A4793A7 2009
813’54—dc22 2008041926

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

To my father, James Hannon,
who always wanted me to write a mystery.

I hope suspense counts, Dad . . .
because this series is for you!

PROLOGUE

“Sir? I think you need to hear this.”

With a preoccupied frown, David Callahan looked up from the security briefing in his hand. His aide, Salam Farah, stood on the threshold of his small office deep inside the fortified U.S. Embassy compound in Kabul, Afghanistan. The man was holding a tape recorder and a single sheet of paper.

“A new message from the terrorists?” David lowered the briefing to his desk.

“Yes. And another personal threat.”

“I’m not interested in threats directed at me.” David waved the comment aside. “Let our security people worry about them.”

“This one is different, sir.”

After forty years in the diplomatic service, most of them spent dealing with volatile situations in the world’s hot spots, David had learned to trust his instincts about people. And in the two months he’d been back in Afghanistan trying to help stabilize the local government, he’d come to respect Salam’s judgment. His aide wouldn’t raise a red flag unless there was good cause.

“All right.” David adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and held out his hand. “Let’s see what they have to say.”

In silence, Salam set the recorder on the desk, pressed the play button, and passed the sheet of paper to David.

As the spoken message was relayed in Pashto, the language favored by the Taliban, David scanned the translation. The warning was similar to those that had come before: convince the country’s struggling fledgling government to release a dozen incarcerated terrorists and pay a twenty-million-dollar ransom, or the three U.S. hostages that had been kidnapped a week ago would die.

But as he read the last line, he understood Salam’s concern. The nature of the personal threat had, indeed, changed.

If you do not convince the government to meet our demands, your daughter will be our next target.

His pulse slammed into high gear.

“When did this arrive?” A thread of tension wove through his clipped question.

“Half an hour ago. It’s been in translation.”

“Was it delivered in the usual manner?”

“Yes.”

Meaning a randomly selected seven- or eight-year-old boy had been paid a few afghanis—the equivalent of a dime—to thrust the tape into the hands of the first U.S. soldier he saw at busy Massood Square, not far from the main gate of the embassy. The young, nimble couriers always managed to slip into the crowd or dart through the traffic before they could be restrained. It was a simple, expedient delivery method that left no clue about the origin of the messages.

Swiveling toward the small window in his office, David considered his options.

The official stance from Washington was clear—the United States didn’t negotiate with terrorists. Nevertheless, secret deals were sometimes bartered that allowed the government to save hostages while maintaining its hard-line public stance. While he’d been assigned to broker a couple of those clandestine arrangements during his career, David had never recommended that course of action. Had never even considered recommending it.

Until now.

Because he wanted to protect Monica—even if she wanted nothing to do with him.

As he stared out the window at the jagged, unforgiving peaks of the distant Hindu Kush Mountains, snow-covered on this frigid February day, he was keenly aware of the moral dilemma he faced. If he’d been unwilling to advise covert bargaining to save the lives of the three American hostages, how could he in good conscience change his stance now just because his own daughter had become a target?

Whoever had masterminded this latest threat had thrown him a cunning, world-class curveball.

For thirty eternal seconds he wrestled with his dilemma. But when he swung back toward Salam, there was steel in his voice.

“Get Washington on the phone.”

Evan Cooper had never liked predawn pages.

In his four years on the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, he’d pulled his share of all-nighters. And those were fine. He’d much rather stay up until the sun rose than be awakened by that rude alert. Especially on a Saturday after a late night of partying.

Stifling a groan, he groped around the top of his nightstand until his fingers closed over his BlackBerry. Once he’d killed the piercing noise, he peered at his watch in the darkness, forcing his bleary eyes to focus. According to the LED dial, it was four in the morning. Two hours of sleep.

Not enough.

Resigned, Coop clicked on his in-box. Normally, his adrenaline would already be pumping as he speculated about what crisis had escalated to the point that the nation’s most elite civilian tactical force would be called in. But in his present condition, the address line did little more than arouse mild curiosity in his sleep-fogged brain. Why had the page been directed to him alone rather than to his full team, as usual?

Squinting in the dark, Coop scanned the clipped directive from Les Coplin, head of the HRT.

Meet me at Quantico ASAP.

No explanation. No clue about why this meeting couldn’t wait until a decent hour. Just a summons.

In other words, typical Les.

After four years of this drill, Coop simply shifted into autopilot. And thirty minutes later, he found himself striding down the too-bright corridor toward Les’s office with no actual recollection of getting dressed, driving to Quantico, going through security, or parking his car.

It was almost scary.

“You look about as alert as I feel.”

At the wry comment, Coop glanced over his shoulder. Mark Sanders closed the distance between them in a few long strides and fell into step beside him.

“One too many beers last night?” Mark queried.

“At least.” Coop didn’t figure it would do any good to deny the obvious. Mark had been by his side most of the evening. “I take it you got a page too?”

“Yep.” He scanned the deserted hallway. “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid. A two-man job. This might be interesting.”

Maybe
, Coop conceded.
After I wake up.

“How come you’re so perky?” Coop gave Mark a suspicious look. The two of them were often teamed up on missions that called for partners, and their on-the-job pairing had led to a solid friendship. “You had as much to drink as I did.”

“I also stopped for a cup of coffee at the quick shop on the way in.”

“Smart.”

“I thought so.” Mark’s lips quirked into a smirk. “Hey, maybe Les will take pity on you and offer you some of his special brew.”

The commander’s thick-as-motor-oil sludge was legendary—and universally abhorred. But Coop was desperate. “I might take him up on it.”

“Whoa!” Mark’s eyebrows shot up. “You did have a rough night. Or else you’re getting old.”

“Thanks a lot, buddy.” In truth, he felt every one of his thirty-eight years this morning.

Chuckling, Mark stopped outside Les’s office and slapped Coop on the back. “Hey, what are friends for?” He lifted his hand to knock but froze as a gruff voice bellowed through the door.

“Don’t just stand there. Come on in!”

Rolling his eyes, Mark pushed the door open and stepped aside, ushering Coop in first.

“Now you decide to be polite,” Coop muttered under his breath as he passed.

Mark’s soft chuckle was the only response.

“Sit.” Les waved them into chairs and fished out some file folders from the sea of papers on his desk. He worked the stub of his ever-present, unlit cigar between his teeth as he scrutinized the men across from him.

“You two look like something the cat dragged in.” He turned to Coop. “Especially you. Get some caffeine.” He motioned to a coffeemaker on a small table against the wall.

After exchanging a look with Mark, Coop rose in silence and filled a disposable cup three-quarters full, stirring in two packets of creamer to cut the bitterness of the noxious swill that masqueraded as coffee. Nothing got past Les, Coop reflected. One quick, assessing glance was all it had taken for the man to figure out who had fared the worse from a night of barhopping.

His astute powers of observation were no surprise, though. A former green beret and HRT operator, Les had headed the Hostage Rescue Team for the past two years. And he’d earned the respect of every HRT member with his keen insights and cut-to-the-chase manner. He’d also earned the nickname Bulldog, thanks to his stocky build, close-cropped gray hair, and square jaw—not to mention his tenacious determination.

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