Against All Odds

by Hannon, Irene

  “One move and you’re dead.”

  The low, intense voice, close to his ear, convinced the officer the man meant business. He remained motionless.

  “Good. I like people who follow directions.”

  The “indigent” man pulled a neck warmer up over the lower half of his face and strode toward the car, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He leaned inside to kill the spotlight and the headlights.

  “What do you want?” Martin strove for a calm tone as he tried to stem the fear coursing through his veins.

  “I want you to call your dispatcher and tell them everything is okay. Tell them the man you saw on the road was a teenager coming home late from a party and hoping to sneak in the back way. Say you’ve alerted his parents, and they’re on their way to pick him up. Keep one hand on the wheel and don’t touch the emergency button. Do it now.”

  Martin slid into the driver’s seat, debating his options. Two against one wasn’t good odds. Especially when one of them had a gun pressed against his neck. But the timing of this incident wasn’t coincidental. It had to be related to the increased patrols in the area. For all he knew, it might have national security implications. It was his duty to attempt to thwart these two from whatever mission had brought them here on this cold February night.

  Yet he had a duty to his family too. At twelve and fifteen, his kids needed a father. And his wife didn’t need a dead hero for a husband.

  “Do it.” The gun pressed harder against his neck.

  Depressing the transmit button, Martin relayed the message his assailant had dictated.

  “Very good. Now get out of the car and open the trunk.”

  His pulse pounding, Martin stood. His legs felt stiff. The man he’d spotted on the road stood by the trunk. He held a gun too. He still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the other man, but he could sense his presence behind him.

  When he reached the trunk, the man from the road moved behind him too. The imminent sense of danger intensified, and he fumbled with the keys. These two did not intend to let him walk away from this encounter, he realized, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

  “Open it.”

  It was dark and difficult to see the lock. He felt for it, and when his fingers closed over the raised circle he fitted the key in and twisted it until the trunk released with a distinctive click.

  “Lift it up.”

  He needed to get his hand on his gun. And this was his chance, Martin recognized. Perhaps his only one.

  His heart thudding, he bent down. As he started to raise the lid, he waited until his hand was level with his gun. Then, in one swift movement, he transferred his hand to his gun and pivoted sideways, calling on every ounce of karate training he could recall to deliver a solid kick with his heel.

  His boot connected. With what, he didn’t know, but he heard a grunt as he started to draw his gun.

  Martin had never expected to emerge unscathed from the encounter. At best, he had hoped to survive.

  But he hadn’t expected the silent, deadly thrust of a knife beneath his ribcage.

  His hand convulsed on his holster as he gasped in pain and staggered back.

  A second searing thrust followed.

  His legs buckled, and he felt himself falling . . . falling . . . falling into a black abyss.

  As his world went dark, he had one last thought.

  He wasn’t the only one who was going to die this night.

  15

  Zahir eased the police car down a dirt byway that led into the woods less than a quarter of a mile from the safe house.

  “How did you find this spot?” Nouri adjusted the earpiece for his voice-activated microphone.

  “I stumbled across it as I was working my way to the safe house the first night. Allah smiles on our mission.”

  That was a moot point, as far as Nouri was concerned. His work against the United States was motivated by hate, not religious fervor. In his opinion, suicide bombers were misguided fanatics who threw their lives away. He had no respect—or patience—for such foolish gestures. It was more noble to live for many missions than to die for one.

  Zahir parked the police cruiser in front of their car. While he retrieved the mini boom mike from the trunk of the dark sedan, Nouri strapped on his equipment belt, flipping off the safety on the 40-caliber Sig Sauer he hoped he didn’t have to use. Even with a silencer, a shot would be loud enough to sound the death knell on their operation. Pulling the trigger would be a last resort.

  “How long do you need to get into position?” Nouri joined Zahir at the trunk and lifted out his backpack. He slung a small stepladder over his shoulder and checked his watch.

  “Ten minutes. I plan to perch in the same tree on the neighbor’s property that provided me good cover last night.”

  “Let me know the second the agent on the back perimeter checks in. My twenty-minute window begins then.”

  “I understand.” Zahir tucked his night-vision binoculars inside his jacket and set off along the edge of the road, disappearing into the dark shadows of the pine trees.

  Nouri followed more slowly. As he slipped on night-vision goggles, pulled a ski mask over his head, and tugged on latex surgical gloves, he forced himself to take deep, even breaths. Unlike his visit to Monica Callahan’s house, tonight’s venture involved great risk. The diplomat’s daughter was well protected, and he needed both luck and skill to pull this off undetected. But he’d done his homework and his plan was solid. Lack of preparation wouldn’t jeopardize his mission. He was as ready as he could be.

  Eight minutes later, Zahir’s voice sounded in his ear. “I am in position.”

  “I am ready whenever you give the word.”

  “The agent on the east perimeter is approaching the front of the property. The agent in the back is heading for the west corner. Stand by.”

  Nouri’s heart began to pound as the minutes ticked by. One. Two. Three.

  “The agent in back is at the corner. This is your best opportunity to get into position.”

  Crouching low, Nouri covered the short distance to the center of the back fence, an ornate wrought-iron affair. He unfolded the stepladder, climbed it, and pulled himself up and over the fence, dropping soundlessly to the other side on a carpet of needles behind the row of pine trees that lined the inside perimeter. Reaching through the iron uprights, he folded up the ladder and eased it through. As he crouched behind the trees, he slid the backpack off his shoulders and removed a knife from the sheath on his belt.

  “I am ready.”

  “The agent at the back perimeter has just checked in with the command center. He is walking your direction. The agent on the east perimeter is in the front corner of the property.”

  “I will be back in touch as soon as the agent is disposed of.”

  Disturbing the foliage as little as possible, Nouri moved in among the branches of the pine trees until he had a view to the other side. With each second that ticked by, adrenaline pulsed through his veins. When the agent came into view, his grip on the knife tightened.

  The man walked slowly, scanning the property. He approached Nouri’s position. Glanced his way. Kept moving.

  Silent as a cougar, Nouri sprang. He was on the man in one leap, his knees gripping the agent’s back.

  With his left hand, he reached around and yanked the man’s jaw up. With his other hand, he sliced through the right carotid artery.

  The man gasped.

  Blood spurted.

  Before the agent could call out, Nouri dropped to the ground and delivered a precise kick to the back of his legs, bringing him to his knees. Nouri gripped his windpipe and squeezed, cutting off the man’s air supply. The man’s eyes bulged, and his struggle grew weaker. Nouri increased the pressure.

  Thirty seconds later, the agent slumped into unconsciousness.

  Grabbing him under the arms, Nouri dragged him behind the pine trees. He removed the man’s gun and tossed it a few feet away. Pushing up the agent’s sleeve,
he cut the wires leading to the mike at his wrist. Not that the man would be calling for help. He was already unconscious. And within five minutes he’d be dead.

  Nouri pulled a cloth from his pocket, wiped the blood off his hands, and checked his watch. The entire attack had taken less than three minutes. Good. He was right on schedule.

  “I am ready to move to the house.”

  “The agent on the east perimeter is beginning to walk toward the back of the property. I see no other activity. You should be clear to approach,” Zahir reported.

  Keeping low, Nouri passed the tennis court and approached the darkened master bedroom suite at the end of the sprawling structure. This was the part of the operation where he would be most exposed. That’s why he’d practiced the sequence of actions over and over to achieve maximum efficiency of motion.

  Dropping beside a bush that formed part of the foundation planting, he opened his backpack and withdrew a gas mask, ice pick, a loop of piano wire, and neoprene gloves. The last item out was a small Teflon-lined, Monel steel cylinder containing compressed fluorine gas he’d pilfered during a clandestine visit to a geology lab a couple of weeks before.

  After adjusting the mask on his face, he pulled on the gloves, set the stepladder beside the window, and climbed two steps to put him at the same level as the top of the lower sash.

  Pressing the cylinder against the glass opposite the handle on the safety lock, he released a jet of gas by opening a special fitting that was surrounded by a snug ring of charcoal. Almost instantly the glass vaporized, leaving a sizeable hole. He repeated the procedure on the inside glass of the double-pane window.

  Once both holes were formed, he inserted the ice pick, the tip rubberized to minimize slippage. Exerting steady pressure, he pushed on the safety latch of the window until it opened halfway.

  After repeating the procedure with the canister on the other side of the lock to create two more holes, he discarded the ice pick and retrieved his jerry-rigged piano wire instrument. It was designed like a needle threader, and had performed as expected when he’d tested it.

  Squeezing the wire loop together, he eased it through the holes in the glass, then allowed it to bow open. Once he’d snagged the half-opened lock, it was a simple matter to pull until it released its hold on the lower sash.

  After retracting the piano wire, Nouri removed his gas mask and dropped both items to the ground. Any toxic, pungent fumes not captured by the charcoal collar had had plenty of time to dissipate. He stripped off his gloves and discarded them too.

  The sash slid up with very little pressure, and he climbed through. Easing it shut behind him, he checked the time. He had seven minutes left.

  He moved across the room to the half-open door and paused to listen. All was silent.

  Sliding along the hall wall, he approached the first door on the left. A bedroom, according to the floor plan he’d found. The only one that showed any evidence of night use, based on Zahir’s surveillance.

  The knob turned easily, noiseless, and he slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

  He took a moment to scan the room. The muted glow of a dim nightlight revealed Monica Callahan sleeping in the queen-sized bed against the far wall, the pillow bunched under her head, one arm across her chest. The covers were in disarray, as if she’d had a restless night.

  And it was only going to get worse.

  He allowed himself one brief flicker of a smile as he pulled a small bottle and a cloth out of a pocket in his vest. Opening the container, he held the cloth against the top and tipped the bottle, letting the sweet-smelling liquid soak into the fabric. Returning the bottle to his pocket, he approached the bed.

  Although he was silent, the woman stirred and her lashes swept up as he drew close. He froze, but she glanced at the clock on her bedside table, not at him. By the time she looked his direction, he was beside her.

  Before she could react, he flung his body over hers to restrain her movements, grasped her free arm, and pressed the cloth to her nose and mouth. She squirmed beneath him, her eyes wide with fright, and tried to scream. But the cloth muffled her cries.

  In less than half a minute, she grew limp.

  Nouri kept the cloth over her nose and mouth for another fifteen seconds, then moved off the bed and opened her window, speaking in a low voice to Zahir.

  “I’m ready to leave the house. Where is the east perimeter guard?”

  “At the back of the property. He just checked in with the control center. You only have four minutes until the agent at the back is scheduled to check in.”

  “I’m on my way. Get the car.”

  Nouri returned to the bed and lifted Monica. He eased her through the window, held her under the arms, and let her drop to the ground with a soft thud. A moment later he followed. After retrieving the stepladder, he slipped it over one shoulder and slung Monica over the other.

  Keeping low, hugging the lush landscaping, he jogged toward the back fence.

  As he brushed through the pines at the back of the property, he noted that the agent was lying where he’d left him.

  Resetting the stepladder by the back fence, Nouri climbed up. All his hours of weight training paid off as he hefted the woman up and over. He let her legs dangle before releasing her to crumple in a heap. In one lithe movement, he scaled the fence and dropped beside her.

  As he bent to lift her, he noted blood on her left temple—and the rock beside it. Frowning, he pressed his fingers against her neck. Felt a pulse. Good. It would be a shame to get this far and have a misplaced rock put a damper on their plans.

  Tossing her over his shoulder once more, he headed up the small incline toward the road. The dark sedan they’d rented was moving his direction, and as it drew to a stop Nouri heard the trunk release.

  He moved to the back, lifted the lid, and dumped Monica inside. Closing the lid with a quiet click, he slid in beside Zahir.

  The car was already rolling as he shut the door.

  “The perimeter guard was due to check in three minutes ago. The timing on this was very close.”

  At Zahir’s comment, Nouri turned to him. Despite the dim interior, he detected a thin film of moisture on the man’s upper lip. Unusual. He’d never seen Zahir sweat. “I knew it would be.” He began to strip off his gear and stash it in the duffel bag at his feet, pulling on the blue sweater he’d worn earlier at the Holiday Inn. “Do you want me to drive?”

  “No. I know the route.”

  Nouri settled back in the seat. Zahir had never faltered in any of the high-pressure situations they’d encountered, and Nouri didn’t expect him to now, despite his uncharacteristic tension. Yet this job had been the most daring they’d ever pulled off. His own nerves had flared a time or two.

  It would soon be over, however. Once they arrived back at the motel, it was a waiting game. The next move was David Callahan’s. As the Americans liked to say, the ball was in their court. If he didn’t meet Tariq’s demands, in less than twenty-four hours one hostage would die in Afghanistan.

  And another would die here.

  Something didn’t feel right.

  A tingle of alarm raced along Coop’s spine as he stared at the dark ceiling in the guest cottage. He had no idea what had jolted him awake, but he wasn’t inclined to ignore the prompting of his gut. It had saved his hide on more than one occasion.

  Angling his head on the pillow, he checked the clock. Three in the morning. That meant he’d managed no more than a couple of fitful hours of sleep.

  And he knew he wouldn’t get any more until he confirmed that everything was okay.

  His fingers groped for his earpiece in the dark, and he fitted it in place, listening. The silence was reassuring. Yet the niggle of disquiet didn’t dissipate.

  Grateful he’d elected to sleep in his clothes, he felt for his shoes on the dark floor. Found them. Slipped them on and tied them, taking care to make as little noise as possible. No need to disturb Mark’s rest without a legitimate reason. St
anding, he slid the wire for his mike down the sleeve of his shirt and clipped it to the cuff.

  He was holstering his Glock when Fendler’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “Minard, you’re three minutes past check-in. Respond.”

  Silence.

  Coop tensed.

  “Minard. Come in.”

  Silence.

  Coop opened the bedroom door and strode toward the kitchen. “What’s up?”

  Fendler frowned. “I’m not getting a response from Minard. He’s on the back perimeter.”

  “I’ll check it out. Put the other guys on alert. Have Mac and Rick look in on Ms. Callahan.”

  Grabbing his jacket and a flashlight, Coop headed out the door. Gun drawn, light off, he worked his way toward the rear of the property, alert to any movement around him. But the estate grounds were peaceful. Nothing seemed amiss.

  Yet Minard’s silence was chilling.

  Suddenly his earpiece crackled to life. It was Mac’s voice. Taut. Clipped.

  “Ms. Callahan is gone. There are signs of a struggle in her bedroom and the window is open.”

  A wave of panic crashed over Coop, powerful enough to freeze his lungs. His step faltered. Monica gone? How was that possible?

  Sucking in a deep breath, he swallowed past his choking fear and lifted his wrist to his mouth, barking out orders. “Fendler, get Mark up. Mac, Rick we need you out here to help search the grounds. I’m at the back fence.” As he spoke, he flicked on the flashlight and strode along the perimeter, just inside the line of pine trees that shielded the property from the scrutiny of curious passers-by on the road. “Has anyone seen or heard anything suspicious in the past twenty minutes?”

  The response from the agents on the security detail was negative.

  “Okay. I’m halfway along the fence and I haven’t . . .”

  His flashlight passed over a section of ground, arced back. The grass was trampled. And stained. Red.

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. He swept the flashlight around the area of struggle. Found a path of crushed grass and spots of fresh blood, as if someone had been dragged. Tracked it to the pine trees at the back of the property.