Egan could sense Maggie tense when he mentioned Cullen. He should tell her about those months he and Cullen had been together, prisoners of the Vietcong. She had a right to know why her son had been kidnapped, why Cullen planned to kill all three of them.
He had never told anyone the whole story and never would. Only in the deepest, darkest recesses of his soul did the complete memory of those months remain. But he could tell her the basic facts, the simple truth of why for the past twenty-eight years he had spent his life waiting, looking over his shoulder, wondering when and where Grant Cullen could attack. Never had he considered the possibility that Cullen’s day of reckoning would involve Maggie and her child.
“Did the war mess up Cullen’s mind?” Maggie asked, as she walked over to Egan and took the book of poetry from him. Her fingers touched his briefly during the exchange. A whisper touch. Fleeting, yet tremendously powerful.
“Cullen was pretty messed up before he ever went to Nam.”
She placed the book with the others and straightened the row. “Why does he hate you?” she asked.
“Because I destroyed his military career. Cullen was a West Point graduate, just like his father and grandfather before him.”
“How did you destroy his career?”
“Short and simple. During our detainment in a POW camp, Cullen betrayed his fellow soldiers and his country. And he did it to save his sorry hide and make his life in prison easier. He willingly traded information he possessed for favors and later on he exposed a planned escape. The only reason I wasn’t killed along with the other men that day was because I was being interrogated at the time it happened.”
“Oh, Egan.” Maggie grasped the edge of the writing desk, her knuckles bleached from the pressure.
“Later, when we were free, I gave a full account of Cullen’s actions to my CO. It was Cullen’s word against mine, until a Vietcong major, one of the officers at the camp, was captured by our side and collaborated my account of the events.”
“Cullen has hated you all these years,” Maggie said. “He has wanted to pay you back because you told the truth about what he did.”
“Yeah, and now he thinks he’s found a way to exact revenge.”
“By killing your son.” Maggie’s face paled.
“I won’t let that happen.” Every muscle in Egan’s body tightened, every nerve tensed. He thought he knew what torture was, thought he had experienced the worst in that Vietcong POW camp. But he’d been wrong.
Maggie held out her unsteady hand, an offering of care and comfort and unity. Egan clasped her hand in his. With the newborn morning sun washing light and warmth over them, they stood together, their eyes speaking a silent language. The heart’s language. A mother and a father praying for the strength and courage—and the chance—to save their son’s life.
Chapter 5
The testosterone level aboard the Dundee jet was off the Richter scale. Maggie had never been surrounded by so much high-octane masculinity. As she watched Ellen Denby’s total ease commanding these ultramacho guys, she envied her greatly. What gave a woman as beautiful as Ellen the ability to give-and-take with these men as if she were just one of the boys? There was not a trace of unease or unsureness in Ellen. Every one of the agents showed her the greatest respect and accepted her orders without blinking an eye. Despite the comradery and familiarity that existed among them, not one man treated Ellen like they would have any other woman. And Maggie figured that it wasn’t easy for them, considering Ellen’s obvious physical attributes. A to-die-for body and a face like an angel.
“Care for some coffee, Ms. Douglas?” Jack Parker approached, a mug of freshly made brew in his hand. “Sugar, no cream. Right?”
“Why, yes, thank you, Mr. Parker.” Maggie accepted the white mug that bore a gold-and-blue Dundee Agency emblem.
Jack sat beside her. “Call me Jack. And I can’t take credit for remembering how you like your coffee, even though I fixed you a cup right after we first boarded. Egan reminded me to add the sugar.”
Maggie glanced toward the table where Egan, Joe Ornelas and Ellen huddled over topographical maps of Arizona, taking special interest in the areas south and east of Flagstaff. She had heard them talking about mountains and gorges, about the Tonto National Forest, East Sunset Mountain, West Sunset Mountain, Clear Creek and something called the Mogollon Rim.
“Would you like a sandwich to go with that?” Jack asked.
Maggie smiled at the charming and attractive man who had undoubtedly been assigned the task of keeping an eye on her. He’d been quite attentive during the entire flight and she could see why he’d been chosen as her baby-sitter. Jack Parker possessed a magnetic personality. And he was good-looking in a rugged, John Wayne sort of way.
“Thanks, I’m not hungry. But you could do something else for me, if you would.” She lifted the mug to her lips and took a sip of the strong, sweet coffee.
“Name it, lovely lady, and it’s yours.”
“Tell me something about yourself and these other Dundee agents who will be risking their lives to save my son.”
Jack’s broad smile vanished, replaced by a sadness in his golden eyes. “Not much to tell. I suppose Egan’s already told you that we’re a bunch of former government agents, military men and law enforcement officers. I can assure you that we’re not a group of amateurs.”
“I realize that y’all are highly trained professionals.”
“As for me, I’m just a good ol’ boy from Texas,” Jack told her. “I used to work for the DEA before I suffered a severe case of burnout.”
“And the others?” she asked, genuinely interested, as she continued sipping her coffee.
“Sleeping beauty over there—” Jack inclined his head toward Matt O’Brien, who relaxed nearby, his eyes closed, his breathing soft and even “—is a former cowboy.”
“Is he from Texas, too?”
Jack chuckled. “No, ma’am, he wasn’t that kind of cowboy. Pretty boy Matt used to be a member of the Air Force’s Green Hornets Squadron. He’ll be piloting the chopper that’ll take us into Grant Cullen territory.”
“Oh, I see.” Maggie studied the long, lean Matt, who was, by anyone’s standards, a devastatingly handsome man.
Jack glanced at the big, six-foot-four bear of a man who sat across from Matt, his blue-gray eyes riveted to the pages inside a file folder that Ellen Denby had handed him when they’d first boarded the jet. “Then there’s Hunter Whitelaw, a Georgia boy and an army man who was part of the publicly unacknowledged Delta Force.”
“Mmm… I have heard of the Delta Force,” Maggie said. “I thought it might not actually exist, except in the movies.”
“Oh, it exists,” Jack said, then turned his attention to the Native American standing at Egan’s side. “Our ace tracker and wilderness expert is Joe Ornelas. He used to be a Navajo policeman.”
“Yes, Egan told me that Mr. Ornelas would be our guide.”
Finally, as she finished the last drops of coffee, Maggie’s gaze settled on the tall, quiet man who sat alone, apart from the others. She had noticed that he’d said very little to anyone since the agents had boarded the plane. He, too, seemed immersed in reading the contents of a file folder.
“That’s Wolfe,” Jack told her. “David Wolfe. Don’t know anything about him…except that Sam Dundee, who owns our agency, personally hired him. Unfriendly cuss. Stays to himself. Doesn’t socialize. But he’s an expert marksman. He can shoot a gnat off a horse’s as—er…a horse’s ear from a mile away.”
“I suppose a talent like that could come in handy, couldn’t it? Especially on an assignment that requires…” Maggie swallowed the lump in her throat. When they went in to rescue Bent, there was bound to be shooting. Probably a lot of shooting. And someone might get killed. One of these men. Or one of Grant Cullen’s soldiers. Or even Egan or Bent.
“Try not to think about what’s going to happen,” Jack said, his voice low and soft and soothing, as he took the empty coffee
mug from Maggie’s unsteady hand. “Just concentrate on the fact that come this time tomorrow, you’ll have your son back with you, all safe and sound.”
“You’re right. That’s exactly what I must concentrate on, if I’m going to keep my sanity.”
“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat?” Jack asked. “If you don’t want a sandwich, let me get you one of those pastries and another cup of coffee.”
“I’m fine, but thank you all the same.”
Before Jack could respond, Ellen Denby approached and gave him a nod of dismissal. He patted Maggie’s hand and offered her a weak smile. She responded with a fragile smile of her own, then turned to Ellen who quickly took the seat Jack had just vacated.
“How are you holding up?” Ellen asked, her voice naturally throaty and sexy.
“I’m all right.”
“Sorry that I haven’t had a chance for us to get better acquainted, but since we pulled this operation together pretty damn fast, we needed the time in flight to finish plotting our course of action.”
“I understand.”
“I know this is rough on you, Maggie, but you’ve got to realize how difficult this is for Egan.”
Maggie’s head snapped up. She glared at Ellen. “If you’re referring to the fact that he blames himself for the situation Bent’s in, then yes, I do realize how difficult this is for him. But I think you should understand something, Ms. Denby. A part of me wants Egan to blame himself, because however irrational it may sound to you, I blame Egan. He should have told me about Grant Cullen when we…when… He should have told me fifteen years ago.”
“You’re right, he should have,” Ellen agreed. “And you should have told Egan that he had a son. The way I see it, there’s more than enough blame to go around.”
“Yes, you’re quite right.”
Ellen’s gaze softened as she looked Maggie directly in the eye. “We’re going to rescue Bent. You have to hold on to that thought.”
Maggie nodded. “How long have you known Egan?”
“Only since he came to work at the Dundee Agency,” Ellen replied. “Why do you ask?”
Maggie nervously rubbed her fingertips up and down her thigh, her short, manicured nails scraping over the cotton knit fabric of her tan slacks. “Despite the fact that he is the father of my child, I really don’t know anything about the man Egan is today. I suppose I thought that if you knew him well—”
“There isn’t a special woman in his life. I know that for a fact.”
“I wasn’t asking about his love life.”
“Yes, you were.” Ellen’s facial expression didn’t alter in the least. “You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t curious.”
“That’s all it is—just curiosity.”
“Hmm-mmm. Well, Egan’s life isn’t exactly an open book. He’s a fairly private man, but there’s one thing all of us at Dundee’s know about him—he’s a very lonely man.”
“Lonely?”
“Yes. Lonely in a way I can’t even begin to describe. Egan is a good man, who does his job well. He’s friendly with me and all the other agents, but he keeps everyone in his life at arm’s length. He doesn’t allow anyone to get too close.”
“Because of Grant Cullen,” Maggie said. “He’s never allowed himself to have established friendships or committed relationships of any kind because Grant Cullen could have used anyone Egan cared for against him.”
“Didn’t take you long to figure that out, did it? You’re a smart lady, Maggie, so you should understand that what Egan is going through right now is every bit as bad as what you’re going through. Worse, if that’s possible. And believe me, I do know that no one can love a child more than his mother.”
Maggie clenched her teeth together in an effort not to cry. She hated the thought of showing such a feminine weakness in front of a tough-as-nails woman like Ellen Denby.
Ellen sat beside Maggie throughout the rest of the flight, occasionally engaging her in conversation, but mostly just offering her female companionship and comfort. Maggie realized that Ellen understood that a mother’s love was incomparable to any other love, an emotion so strong and pure that since time immemorial, mothers have not only killed to protect their young, but they have often died to protect them. Just as the males of the species have done to protect their mates.
Why was Ellen so astute about the depth a mother’s love? Maggie wondered. Had she simply assumed this was true or did she know firsthand?
When they arrived in Flagstaff, having landed at Pulliam Airport, Ellen and all the agents, except Egan and Joe, left in a rental car for a private airstrip, where, Maggie had been told, they would inspect the helicopter Matt O’Brien would use to take them within hiking distance of Cullen’s hideaway before nightfall.
Egan hoisted Maggie’s overnight bag, along with his own, over his shoulder and led her to the parking deck where a late-model SUV was waiting for them. Joe Ornelas opened the unlocked vehicle, slipped his hand under the floor mat on the driver’s side and lifted a key. After they stored their bags in the back, on top of a stack of provisions, Egan settled Maggie in the front seat and took the key from Joe, who climbed in the seat directly behind Maggie. Egan slid behind the wheel, started the engine and maneuvered the SUV out of the deck and onto the road leading from the airport.
“We’re about forty miles from Minerva,” Joe said, as he removed a map from the black leather briefcase he carried. “We take Interstate 40 toward Winslow, but we exit off at Cedar Hills and then it’s two-lane all the way in to Minerva.”
“Maggie, do you need to stop for anything before we leave Flagstaff?” Egan asked, but didn’t glance her way.
“No, I’m fine,” she replied.
“Then we should be in Minerva in less than an hour.”
Thirty-seven minutes later, they reached the downtown area of a small, isolated town perched halfway up the mountain. Time seemed to have stopped here sometime in the early twentieth century, Maggie thought, as she watched tree-lined Main Street unfold in front of her. The tallest structure in town appeared to be the two-story, corner brick that had apparently once housed a hotel. Glancing down alleyways, she noted the sidewalks turned into wide stretches of old asphalt and some weathered, wooden hitching posts remained intact, a reminder of a bygone era.
Joe pointed out Schmissrauter’s Garage, a crumbling stucco building with an attached front porch constructed of unfinished logs. A couple of antique gas pumps stood out front on the cracked pavement. Silent sentinels of another time.
Egan drove on past the place where he was supposed to make contact with the person possessing the directions to Cullen’s fort.
“Aren’t we stopping?” Maggie asked.
“No,” Egan said.
Egan pulled the SUV to a halt in front of the only restaurant in town. “We’ll park here.” Miss Fannie’s was housed in a tin-roofed, clapboard house that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in two decades “You two go in and order dinner, while I walk over to the garage and take care of a little business.”
Maggie grasped Egan’s arm. “Isn’t Joe going with you?”
“I can handle this alone,” he told her, then glanced over his shoulder at Joe. “After we eat, we’ll head out immediately. I want to be within five miles of Cullen’s fort before we make camp tonight.”
Joe only nodded, but the minute Egan exited the SUV, Joe jumped out and opened Maggie’s door for her. After he helped her disembark, he escorted her into Miss Fannie’s. The place reminded her of a little café in Parsons City where her father had taken her when she was a little girl for the best greasy hamburgers in the world. Oiled wooden floors, marred with wear. Bead-board ceilings from which rickety fans dangled. A long counter, with a row of round stools, the seats covered with cracked, faded red vinyl. Pete’s Café hadn’t existed, except in her memory for over thirty years, but this place brought her memories to life.
They seated themselves at a table near the door. A fat, middle-aged waitress
with teeth as yellow as her bleached hair handed them each a well-worn menu.
“What’ll it be folks?” the woman asked, eyeing them suspiciously.
“Why don’t you order for all three of us, Maggie?” Joe suggested.
“You folks lost your way or something?” Their waitress scratched her head with the nub of the pencil she held in her hand. “We don’t get many strangers in these parts.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Cassidy are here in Arizona to do some hiking. They hired me as a guide,” Joe explained.
“Where’s her husband?” She inclined her head toward Maggie.
“At the garage,” Joe said. “He’ll be on over soon.”
Nervously Maggie scanned the menu, all the while wondering if any of the other patrons in Miss Fannie’s might be spies for Grant Cullen. The old coot at the counter, slurping down soup? Or the Native American couple at a back table? Or maybe the three men feasting on gravy-smothered fried steaks? Hadn’t the possibility that one of Cullen’s men could be watching them crossed Joe’s mind? What if this whole town was under Cullen’s control? Stop it! a strong-willed inner voice demanded. You can’t let your imagination run wild with you like that.
“Three cheeseburgers, three orders of fries and three large colas, please,” Maggie ordered, then looked to Joe for approval.
He smiled, and for the first time since she’d been in his presence, she realized what a beautiful man Joe Ornelas was. Not in the classically handsome way some men were, but in a bronze-sculpture way, with a muscular physique and a magnificent profile.
The waitress’s sausage-link fingers clasped her pencil tightly as she hurriedly scribbled down their order. “We got some homemade apple pie. It’s mighty good.”
“All right. We’ll take three pieces.” Maggie handed her menu to the waitress and Joe followed suit.
Minutes ticked by. Neither she nor Joe bothered with making small talk. Maggie checked her watch continuously. Where was Egan? What was taking him so long? Had something gone wrong?
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