Against All Odds (17 page)
Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
He’d noticed what she’d eaten. Did any detail escape this man? And was he this attentive on every job? Or was there a personal element to his caring? She swallowed past the sudden, surprising longing that tightened her throat. “I’ll try.”
Her response was met with a warm, approving smile. Standing, he reached for a disposable plate and utensils and slid them toward her. “What do we have, Mark?”
“Cashew shrimp and”—his partner peered into the second container—“mongolian beef, maybe?”
“What would you like, Monica?” Coop picked up the rice container and put a dollop on her plate.
“The shrimp, thanks.”
He spooned the garlicky mixture over her rice. Both men loaded up their plates with a generous helping of each of the dishes and dove in. She supposed they’d seen far worse than a drawer of blood-soaked lingerie, had learned long ago to steel themselves against such horror. But shock waves continued to reverberate through her.
When Coop caught her eye, then glanced at her plate, she got the hint. Picking up her fork, she scooped up some rice and shrimp. Under his watchful gaze, she forced herself to put the fork in her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. For an instant her stomach churned, as if unsure whether to accept or reject the offering. She waited a few seconds, prepared to bolt for the ladies’ room if necessary, but to her surprise, her stomach settled down and her appetite kicked in. She took another forkful, and Coop smiled at her.
After she’d eaten half of the food on her plate, he wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and picked up some layouts. “Ready to hear about your temporary home?”
“Sure.”
“Keep eating while we run over this.” He set a layout and an aerial photo beside her plate. The house was long and low, contemporary in design. It seemed to be situated on several very secluded acres, and the entire compound was surrounded by a tall, decorative wrought-iron fence. There was a swimming pool in the back, and a curving, circular drive in front. What appeared to be a small guest cottage stood apart from the main house near a wooded section of the backyard.
“Nice,” Monica remarked.
“How the other half lives.” Mark grinned as he continued to wolf down his combination lunch/dinner.
“The house has a state-of-the-art security system, including off-site video monitoring from two cameras. We’ll be able to tap into that feed at our TOC—tactical operations center—in the guest house.” He pointed to the smaller building. “A two-person HRT security team will be with you in the main house 24/7. Mark and I will be on days, Rick and Mac on nights. We’ll also have field agents spaced around the fence to secure the perimeter of the property. There are a few ground rules too.” Coop turned to Mark. “If you’re done stuffing your face, why don’t you run over them while I finish eating?”
“Hey, I’m a growing boy.” Mark winked at Monica, and she managed to give him a whisper of a smile as he laid down his fork. “The rules are simple. Stay inside unless you’re with one of us. Sections of the security system in the house will be left on, and opening an outside door will trip the alarm. We’ll deactivate it only to let people in and out. You have free run of the house, and someone will always be a shout away. Don’t hesitate to call for us if anything—and I mean anything—spooks you.”
“Do you think they’ll be able to figure out where I am?”
“Not if we can help it.” Coop polished off the last bite of his food, pushed his plate away, and folded his hands on the desk. His jacket had been discarded long ago, and he’d loosened his tie and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. The fine sprinkling of dark hair on his muscular forearms held Monica’s attention for a brief moment before she raised her head and waited for him to continue.
“We don’t think we were followed here, but considering these people have fooled us once, we’re not assuming anything. We’ll leave here between five and six, when the bulk of the employees go home, disguised, and we’ll coordinate departures to ensure more than a dozen cars leave when we do. If anyone is watching, we’re not going to make it easy for them to spot you—or to follow. I’ll be in the car behind you, Mark will leave separately. Later this evening, we’ll rendezvous at the safe house.”
“But what if they do manage to follow us?”
“All agents are trained to watch for—and lose—tails.” He paused, and she sensed an internal debate was taking place. “But we’re not perfect, as today proved. When we talked to our boss earlier, he mentioned the possibility of moving you to the Quantico Marine base. It’s not the protection your father asked for, but if you’re more comfortable going that route, I can put in a call to Les.”
Noting Mark’s surprised expression, Monica frowned. “Is that what you recommend?”
“Security there is very tight.” He sidestepped her question.
“Would you . . . and Mark . . . be there?”
“No. That’s a military operation. But they have good people.”
She considered the offer. “Do you think the risk is higher if I choose the safe house?”
“We’ll minimize it as much as we can. Using agents from other towns for perimeter security will help. No one should be looking to those offices to provide any clues about your whereabouts.”
As a diplomat’s daughter, Monica had been on enough military bases in her life to know they were like small towns—lots of people, lots of hustle and bustle. Security was tight, especially at access points, but it could be breached. And she doubted she’d have the kind of dedicated, one-on-one protection there that the HRT and field agents would provide at the safe house.
Either way, there was risk, she realized. But she’d rather trust Coop and the FBI to protect her than a bunch of Marines she didn’t know at Quantico.
“I’ll go with the safe house.”
“You’re sure?” Coop’s assessing stare drilled her.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes. I’d rather be with you guys.”
A flash of warmth shot through his eyes before he angled away to sort through the papers on the table. Retrieving a blank piece, he pulled a pen from his pocket and placed both items in front of her. “Put together a list of anything you need—clothes, toiletries, whatever—and we’ll see it’s taken care of. Sizes too. If this goes on beyond—”
He paused and pulled his BlackBerry from its holster. As he checked the number of the incoming call, a muscle in his jaw tightened. “It’s the embassy in Kabul.” He pressed the talk button. “Cooper here . . . We’re trying to find out, sir. The Evidence Response Team is on the scene, and we’re preparing to transport Ms. Callahan to a safe house . . . Yes, sir. I understand. We’re doing our best.”
“Coop.” Monica touched his elbow. “Let me talk to him.”
Slanting a look over his shoulder, Coop spoke into the phone. “Sir, your daughter is here now, and she’d like to speak with you.”
Silence fell in the room.
“Sir?” Coop listened, then handed the phone to Monica. “We’ll be in the hall.”
She took the phone and waited to speak until the door clicked shut behind the two men.
“It’s Monica.”
“Monica.” Her father breathed the word more than said it. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. And the FBI is doing everything it can to protect me. What happened at my house was . . . bizarre.”
“It could have been fatal.”
She flinched at his blunt, but truthful, assessment. “Everyone understands that. But I don’t know how it could have been avoided. The precautions that have been taken to protect me are very elaborate.” She took a deep breath, praying for the strength to let go of bitterness and the courage to reach out. “I was going to call you earlier, before all this happened. I wanted to thank you for going to that bazaar. You took a huge risk.”
“It was worth it.”
The quiet, heartfelt words touched a place deep inside Monica, and she was jolted by a sudden insight. He hadn’t said I love you. But she heard his unspoken message.
You
were worth it. Had he sent her such veiled messages in the past too? she wondered, shaken. Messages she’d been deaf to?
You
were worth it. Had he sent her such veiled messages in the past too? she wondered, shaken. Messages she’d been deaf to?
All at once, the elusive theme she’d been trying for weeks to nail down for her next book sharpened into focus: listening with the heart as well as the ears. It seemed that was a lesson she needed to learn too.
“I’ve been thinking a lot over the past few days about our relationship, and I . . . I’m sorry we’ve lost touch.”
“I’m sorry too. And the fault is mine, Monica.”
“Not all of it.”
“I disagree. But maybe . . . after this is all over . . . we could debate the point in person. I’ll be back in Washington for a debriefing as soon as the situation is resolved. If you have a free evening, perhaps we could meet for dinner. Or coffee, if you prefer.”
She heard his trepidation, understood from the options he’d offered that he would meet her on her terms. That he didn’t want to push her beyond her comfort level. But all at once she felt the need to push herself. “Dinner would be nice.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” The warmth—and gratitude—in his tone was unmistakable.
“In the meantime, be careful.”
“I always am. I’m more worried about you. Please follow the advice of your security people.”
“Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson on that score. We’re headed for a safe house in a few minutes, and I don’t plan to set one foot outside until the all clear sounds.”
“Good. I’ll sleep better knowing that.”
Another veiled message about love. This one she heard, communicated via his sincerity and the slight tremor in his words.
“Thanks again for the dinner invitation.”
“It will be my pleasure. Good night, Monica.”
“Good night.”
As Monica tapped the end button, she realized her hand was shaking. But her heart felt a new and cleansing calm.
When the line went dead, David slowly set the phone back on his nightstand. Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands. He’d started the call angry, determined to berate someone for not protecting his daughter. And he’d wanted reassurance.
He’d ended the call appeased—and reassured—in a far different manner and on a much broader scale than he’d expected. By Monica herself.
Rising from his narrow bunk, David walked over to the window in the tiny, impersonal room that was his temporary home. Tipping one of the slats in the blinds, he stared into the night. The compound was illuminated for security purposes, the artificial light giving an unnatural glow to the rows of white buildings that had staked a tentative claim on this dangerous land, creating a tiny oasis of calm in the midst of turmoil.
A sudden, unexpected yearning for the green, forested hills of Virginia he’d once called home filled David. He was tired of leading a nomadic life, he realized. Tired of dealing with unreasonable people. Tired of watching man’s inhumanity to man. And tired of waking up to a world where no one cared about David, the man—only about David, the diplomat.
You were right, Elaine, when you told me years ago that one day I’d wind up a lonely man and second-guess my choice. That day has finally come.
An aching sense of regret tightened his throat. Not for the work itself. He’d accomplished a great deal of good in his life. Yet he’d given up so much to achieve it. Too much, he acknowledged, in the clarity of hindsight. But no more. He was sixty-six years old. It was time to go home.
Especially now that Monica had given him a reason to return.
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