Against All Odds (35 page)
Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
The ride had also been far more peaceful than he’d anticipated. Instead of agonizing over the fate of Monica and the other three hostages, he’d been able to breathe for the first time in days. While the situation remained volatile, he knew the best teams in the world were committed to rescuing all four of the hostages. He had to trust—and pray—they would succeed.
Closing his eyes, David took a moment to do just that. And to give thanks for the positive turn of events.
The explosion came without warning.
One second, the car was quiet, the ride uneventful.
An instant later it felt like Armageddon.
A blast roared through the car, hurling David against the door. Glass shattered. Searing light blinded him. Pain shot through his head. His arms. His chest.
He heard screams.
Realized they were his.
And then the world went black.
20
Staying low, Coop and Mark covered the last few yards to the end of the building where Monica was being held prisoner. Cued by Les, who was monitoring the kidnappers’ movements on the live feed, three other assaulters were already in position behind the car parked outside the door. The remaining two were concealed next to the car belonging to the agents in the adjacent room. They would remain there unless needed.
The job could have been handled by three or four operators, but Coop assumed the commander had drafted the whole group as a precaution, given the high-level nature of the abduction. Likewise the decision to call in three snipers versus one or two. Coop didn’t mind the overkill, considering all that had gone wrong with this mission. The more hands on deck, the better.
After verifying that his team was in final position, Coop fitted in his earplugs, adjusted his goggles, and lifted his wrist to his mouth to alert the Tactical Operations Center they were ready. “HR-35 to TOC. We’re at yellow.”
“TOC to all units. Stand by to copy.” Les’s voice sounded in his ear.
Flexing his fingers on his Heckler and Koch MP5, Coop waited for Les to count down the assault, his adrenaline pumping. Behind him, he felt Mark shifting his own submachine gun into position.
The seconds ticked by. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Coop frowned at the delay.
“TOC to all units. Hold.”
At the clipped instruction from Les, Coop tamped down his impatience. Ten more seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty. His patience gave out.
“HR-35 to TOC. Request an update.”
“TOC to HR-35. One of the targets has moved too close to the hostage.”
“HR-35 to TOC. How close?”
“TOC to HR-35. He’s standing by her bed.”
“What else is he doing?” Coop’s fingers clenched around his gun and he gritted his teeth, aware that his question violated normal communications protocol. For one thing, he should have prefaced the query with his operator number, as he had in the previous exchanges. For another, it wasn’t up to him to call—or suggest—the shots. He was out of line, and he knew it.
Les’s terse tone when he responded made that clear. “TOC to HR-35. He’s not hurting her.”
That depends on how you define hurting
, Coop countered in silence as a muscle clenched in his jaw. “HR-35 to TOC. Request permission to move to green.”
, Coop countered in silence as a muscle clenched in his jaw. “HR-35 to TOC. Request permission to move to green.”
“TOC to all units. We’re not going to rush this unless the hostage’s life is in imminent danger. Stand by.”
Unable to see—and helpless to stop—what was happening on the other side of the wall, mere feet from where he stood, Coop tried to block out the nauseating scenarios playing in his mind. Did his best to focus on the play-by-play plan they would soon implement. Struggled to swallow past his thirst for vengeance.
Failed.
In the end, he turned to the only tool at his disposal during this agonizing waiting game.
God, please protect her.
The seven-thirty phone call didn’t surprise Tariq. This was the big day. There were many plans to implement, most of them contingent on David Callahan’s response to his demands. His people were awaiting instructions, and he’d expected some of his lieutenants to check in.
But the caller ID told him the man on the other end of the line was a key informant who’d played little role in this operation. Tariq used him more in his opium business. And he had little time today for those matters.
Yet the contact often provided valuable, opportune information, he reminded himself. Two weeks ago he’d tipped Tariq to a raid that would have cost him several hundred thousand dollars. It might be in his best interest to answer.
“This is Hissar. You have information?” The man knew Tariq only by that code name.
“I have learned that David Callahan’s car was bombed this morning en route to Bagram. I thought that would be of interest to you, in light of your present activities.”
Stunned by the news, Tariq groped with the implications as he fired off questions. “Who did it? When? Is he alive?”
“My source tells me it happened thirty minutes ago. No one has claimed responsibility yet. I have no report on his condition.”
“I am anxious for more news. You will be compensated for any information you provide, as always.”
“Thank you, Hissar. It is a pleasure to do business with you. I will let you know if I learn any more.”
As the line went dead, Tariq began to pace. And process. There could be only one explanation for the bombing, he concluded.
Mahmud.
His key Kabul lieutenant had questioned Tariq’s plan almost from the beginning. Yesterday he’d raised concerns that David Callahan might be leaving the country and pushed Tariq to kill the diplomat while he had the chance. And he’d admitted he wasn’t convinced Tariq’s decision to kidnap Monica Callahan had been sound.
Tariq had rebuked him, assuming he’d toe the line until this was over.
Instead, it seemed the man had taken matters into his own hands. And possibly ruined all of Tariq’s plans.
Anger began to seethe inside Tariq. He should have listened to his instincts and pulled Mahmud out of this operation weeks ago, when the man’s insolence first manifested itself. Instead, he’d decided to give him a chance to prove he could be trusted. And controlled.
That had been a mistake. Instead of learning his lesson, the man had grown more brazen. And now he’d become a liability.
Was he foolish enough to think such insubordination and treachery would go unpunished? Tariq wondered, astounded by the man’s boldness. Or was it conceivable that Mahmud thought Tariq would have a change of heart, realize the error of his ways, and thank him for taking the initiative to disobey what Mahmud considered to be erroneous orders?
The questions didn’t matter, and Tariq dismissed them. He didn’t intend to waste time or energy trying to understand Mahmud’s motives. He had already decided there would be consequences for the man once the operation was over. Now they would be more dire. And more immediate.
His lips settling into a thin, unyielding line, Tariq tapped a number into his cell phone. He needed to canvas all his sources to find out if David Callahan lived. But first, he planned to send a message to Mahmud and the rest of his lieutenants: defiance will not be tolerated.
Fifteen excruciating minutes after the HRT commander issued his hold order, Coop’s earpiece crackled back to life.
“TOC to all units. The subject is moving away from the bed. Stand by to copy.”
His fingers tightened on his weapon, and Coop angled a look over his shoulder at Mark. The other man gave an almost imperceptible dip of his head and edged around Coop.
“TOC to all units. One subject is at the back of the room, near the sink. The other is at the computer against the inside wall. We’re at green. I have control. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”
As the last number echoed in their ears, Coop and Mark were already moving. Mark rounded the front of the building and passed under the window in a crouch, stopping on the far side of the door. Coop took his place under the window, aware their position was fully exposed. But as he’d told Monica, his teammates had earned his trust. The long-range precision fire of the three concealed snipers would cover them if they were detected.
One of the operators hidden behind the kidnappers’ car had already moved to the door. Working swiftly, with a quiet efficiency reflecting long hours of practice, he attached the rubber strip charge and primed the end of the detonation cord. As he fired the charge and moved aside, Coop shielded his eyes.
The blast exploded in the quiet night, buckling and bending the door as it pulled the locking mechanisms from their catches. Explosive breaching alone was often sufficient to shock and stun suspects. But for good measure, Mark lobbed a flash-bang grenade into the room as the door fell inward, shouting “FBI” at the same time.
Two-point-seven seconds later, the room erupted with brilliant repeating strobes and high-decibel noise designed to debilitate and disorient for up to five seconds.
Coop was the first one in, as rehearsed. Mark and two other operators followed, fanning out. The imploding door had knocked the kidnapper at the computer to the ground. He wasn’t moving. Coop’s gaze went to the second man.
A pistol shot rang out, startling him. He felt a sting on his arm.
More shots followed. From HRT automatic weapons.
The kidnapper at the back of the room reached for the gun at his belt. Coop aimed. Pulled the trigger. The man jerked back. Toppled.
It was all over in eight seconds.
As quickly as the room had erupted with noise, it went silent.
While the other operators verified that the kidnappers posed no additional threat, Coop strode toward Monica, wrist to mouth.
“HR-35 to TOC. Scene is contained.”
“Copy, HR-35. What is the condition of the hostage?”
“Checking that now. Get the EMTs in here.”
“They’re on the way. Any operator casualties?”
Without breaking his pace, Coop did a quick scan of the room. “No.”
Yanking out his earplugs, he pulled off his goggles and leaned over Monica. She was curled into a ball on her side, her eyes wide. Dazed. Unfocused. She was also shaking badly. No surprise there. Flash-bang grenades could destabilize people in good condition for up to a minute. After everything she’d been through, Monica didn’t come close to falling into the good category.
Aside from the lingering effects of the flash-bang, however, she didn’t appear to have been injured in the assault. To verify that, he reached for the bedspread, intending to pull it back. But her hands convulsed around the edge, gripping it, and she whimpered.
With a jolt, he realized his actions must have reminded her of the slimeball who’d harassed her.
Leaving the cover in place, he sat beside her and pulled off his helmet. “Monica, it’s Coop. You’re okay. It’s over.” The words came out hoarse and uneven as his gaze locked with hers. With a gentle finger, he stroked the back of her white knuckles. “Monica? Can you hear me? I just want to verify you’re not hurt.”
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