“Coop?”
Mark’s query echoed in his ear. He ignored it as he followed the trail, the thud of his heart almost painful in his chest as he forced himself to push aside the branches.
Terry Minard was on the ground, his head and neck resting in a pool of blood, his throat slit, his eyes open and vacant.
Coop didn’t need to feel for a pulse to know there was no life left in the man.
“Minard is dead.” He delivered the news in a grim tone as he swept his light along the fence. Saw the stepladder. Spotted some blood on a rock on the other side of the fence.
And knew that Monica was gone.
“We need answers. Fast. Let’s do a cursory search of the grounds, but my gut tells me Ms. Callahan isn’t here. We need to secure the area and the road behind the property. Get it done, Fendler. I’m on my way to the house now.”
As he sprinted toward the front door, Mark fell in beside him, his expression somber. “What happened?”
“Monica’s gone. That’s all we know.”
“Do you want me to call Les?”
Someone had to, Coop realized. In his fear for Monica, protocol had slipped his mind. “I’ll do it.”
Pulling out his cell phone, he jabbed in Les’s direct line as they entered the house. He remained in the foyer as Mark headed toward Monica’s bedroom.
“Coplin.” Even at three in the morning, the commander answered on the first ring. Sounding wide awake.
“Coop here. I . . . have bad news. Monica Callahan is missing.”
“What!” At Les’s bellow, Coop cringed and jerked the phone away from his ear. “What happened?”
“We’re trying to determine that. Based on the evidence we have so far, the snatch appears to have happened sometime in the past twenty minutes.”
“What evidence?”
“The agent patrolling the back perimeter checked in twenty minutes ago. He didn’t call in twenty minutes later, as scheduled. We found him by the fence. Dead.”
The string of expletives Les uttered matched the way Coop felt.
“Okay. I’m calling in local law enforcement. We need coverage there, and we need it fast. I want every patrol officer in a fifty-mile radius alerted that an abduction has taken place. I’ll call Dennis Powers and get the Richmond ERT out there ASAP. I want material in the lab as soon as they can get it here. Where are you now?”
“I just stepped into the house.”
“Call me when you get a handle on what happened.”
The line went dead.
As Coop slipped the phone back into its holder, he realized his hand was trembling. That had never happened to him on a case.
But he’d never been assigned to protect anyone like Monica, either.
Nor had an assignment ever gone so wrong.
And the outlook wasn’t good. Even if every law enforcement agency in the area deployed all the manpower they could muster, it would be impossible to stop every car.
“You need to see this, Coop.” Mark spoke from the doorway of the foyer.
“Yeah.” Raking his hand through his hair, Coop strode toward the hall.
“Hey.” Mark put a hand on his shoulder as Coop started to pass, detaining him for a brief moment. “We’ll find her.”
“We don’t have a lot of time. And these guys are good.”
“We’re better.”
“You couldn’t prove that by what happened here tonight.” Self-recrimination put a bitter edge on his words. Shrugging off Mark’s hand, Coop continued down the hall toward Monica’s room, pausing on the threshold.
In a quick but thorough scan, Coop processed the scene. They wouldn’t touch anything until the ERT arrived, but he could come to some pretty obvious conclusions from a visual sweep. The bed covers were in disarray, indicating a struggle. The window was open, pointing to the escape route. He tried not to fixate on the smears of blood that stained the sheets. At least there wasn’t much of it. And it could be Minard’s. The abductor couldn’t have committed such a bloody murder without being splattered. His one consolation was that if the terrorists had gone to all this effort to get Monica out alive, they must intend to keep her that way.
For now.
He couldn’t let himself think beyond that.
Focusing on the scene, he realized Rick was kneeling on the floor beside a piece of white cloth. As Coop watched, the other operator leaned down and sniffed the fabric.
“What is that?” Coop joined him, dropping down to balance on the balls of his feet.
“Chloroform.”
“There’s more to see in the master bedroom.” Mark spoke quietly behind him.
They found Mac studying the window in the adjacent room. When Coop drew close, the man pointed out the two sets of holes by the lock. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Twin furrows creased Coop’s brow. “How do you make holes in glass?”
“I was never very good at chemistry, but I’m thinking they must have created some kind of chemical reaction that dissolved the glass.”
“I’m going to take a look outside.”
Mark fell into step beside him as he exited the room.
Two minutes later, they were staring down at the discarded gas mask, ice pick, some kind of wire loop, and heavy gloves. The kind used in labs.
“Mac was right. They must have used some kind of chemical to burn through the glass.” Coop shook his head. “This is surreal. And how could they get her out through our tight security net? Backing up further, how did they know she was here to begin with?”
“I have no idea. But we’ll figure it out. Les will put every resource at his disposal on this case.”
Coop didn’t doubt that. And with the clues left behind, they’d eventually be able to piece together how the terrorists had pulled off the kidnapping.
But he had a sick feeling the abductors had left very few clues that would help them solve the more critical mystery.
Where had they taken Monica?
16
She felt sick to her stomach.
Fighting down her roiling nausea, Monica pried her eyelids open.
Blackness.
Frowning, she squeezed her eyes shut. Opened them again.
Nothing.
Why was it pitch dark? The dim nightlight in her room didn’t provide much illumination, but it did delineate the shadowy outlines of the furnishings.
Shadowy.
A shadowy figure looming over her. Pressing a cloth to her . . .
A sudden physical jolt snapped her back to the present. Her cheek rose from the bed, hung suspended, slammed back against the mattress. The pulsating throb in her temple intensified.
Her pulse skyrocketed, and fear clawed at her throat.
This wasn’t her bed.
Fighting to subdue her mushrooming panic, she explored with her fingers. She was lying on a hard surface covered with some sort of coarse, scratchy cloth. And what was that humming sound? Why was it so cold?
An abrupt swerving motion threw her against an unyielding surface, and she moaned again as pain shot through her head. Another wave of nausea swept over her.
This time she couldn’t fight it off. Turning her head, she spewed out last night’s dinner, retching until her stomach ached and she lay limp and spent, shivering from cold and fear.
Her cheek pressed to the rough fabric, her fingers clenched into tight fists, she tried to remember what had happened. She’d tossed a lot during the night, she recalled. After finally falling asleep well past midnight, she’d awakened often, checking the clock on her bedside table each time. It had been 2:45 the last time she’d looked at the digital dial.
That’s when she’d seen the shadowy figure beside her bed.
For an instant she’d thought it was one of the HRT operatives come to check on her. But she’d dismissed that at once. They never entered her room without knocking. Terrified, she’d opened her mouth to scream. But before she could utter a sound, a powerful body had pinned her to
the bed while a strong hand clamped a rag over her nose and mouth, muzzling her. Suffocating her.
Then everything had gone black.
The reality crashed over her.
Despite the elaborate security measures, despite her hidden location, despite the presence of numerous, well-trained agents, it seemed the HRT hadn’t been able to keep her safe after all.
But how had her abductors managed to get past nearly a dozen dedicated, skilled, armed agents committed to protecting her? Had men died trying to keep her safe?
Had Coop?
Please, Lord, no, she prayed, wracked now by a new fear.
All at once the rocking motion stopped and the humming noise ceased, refocusing her on the present danger. The sound had been the drone of an engine, she concluded, tensing. She was in a trunk. And the sudden quiet must mean they’d reached their destination.
A door slammed, confirming her conclusion. The vehicle vibrated as another door was pushed shut, suggesting there were at least two people in the car.
She heard low-pitched voices, the words indistinguishable. A key was inserted in the trunk lock. Struggling to control the tremors that shook her body, she lowered her eyelids to a mere slit and rested her wrist on her chest. It might be to her advantage if they thought she was still unconscious, but she needed to get some sense of what was happening.
The lid lifted. Dim light spilled into the trunk, and she was able to read the dial on her watch. Three forty-seven. An hour had passed since she’d spotted the shadowy figure in her room.
“She threw up.” A man’s voice. Laced with disgust.
“We’ll deal with it later. Get her inside.”
Arms slid under her knees, her shoulders. She was lifted. Pulled against a solid chest.
As the man turned, she looked up. Saw dark, hard eyes. Caught a glimpse of an illuminated Motel 6 sign at the far end of a parking lot. Heard the sound of a door opening. And realized that if they got her inside, she’d never escape.
In desperation, she pushed against the man’s chest and jerked out of his arms. Her feet hit the pavement. She opened her mouth to scream. Prepared to run.
But before she could utter a sound, a fist smashed into her face.
Stunned, she reeled back. Pain shot through her head, and a gush of blood spurted from her nose as she staggered and fell. Her chin connected with the edge of the trunk, and she felt her skin tear.
In one swift, ruthless move, the man yanked her back into his arms and crushed her against him, pressing her throbbing face tight to his chest in a suffocating hold that had her clawing at his shirt as she fought for air.
Once inside, the door shut behind them, and the man threw her on a bed, clamping his hand over her mouth as he braced himself on one knee beside her. She thrashed, straining to focus her blurry vision, as a second man withdrew a knife and leaned close to press the point of the blade against her throat, his icy eyes inches from hers. She froze.
“If you utter one sound or make one wrong move, I will use this knife.” His words were low and menacing. “Do you understand?”
When she didn’t respond, he pressed the knife harder, breaking the skin. She gasped.
“Do you understand?”
Fighting down another wave of nausea and panic, Monica gave a slight nod.
“Good. Let us test that theory.” He signaled to the other man, who slid his hand off her mouth. She felt the prick of the knife as she swallowed. Tasted blood. Remained silent and still.
“There is no one else staying nearby. Your cries will not be heard anyway. But we take no chances. One sound, and this”—he lifted the bloody knife and held it in front of her, inches from her throat—“will kill again tonight.”
Again.
The implication slammed into her with the same sharp, breath-snatching force as the fist had moments ago.
Bile rose in her throat.
“I-I’m going to be sick.” The words came out whispered, raw.
Motioning to the man who’d carried her inside, the knife-wielding figure she’d already deemed the leader moved aside.
“Take her to the bathroom.”
Sinewy fingers closed over her arm, and she was yanked to her feet. When her legs buckled, she was half dragged, half carried past the sink and mirror at the far end of the room and shoved through a door, into the tiny, windowless chamber that housed the commode.
She barely made it. Kneeling on the floor, she retched into the toilet, emptying what little remained in her stomach. The man towered over her, one shoulder propped against the doorway, arms folded against his chest. She saw no compassion, no mercy in his eyes. And knew these men would kill her without compunction if she didn’t do exactly what they said. Would relish it, in fact.
But for now, it seemed, they wanted her alive.
That gave her only one tool to work with. Time. And perhaps not much of that. As soon as the throbbing in her head subsided enough to allow rational thought, she needed to figure out how to use that tool to her advantage.
The other man joined his compatriot and stared down at her.
“We should gag her.” The man who’d punched her spoke.
“No. If she throws up again, she’ll choke. We need her alive. For now.” He touched the knife at his belt. “Clean her up.”
Once more she was jerked upright. The sudden move caused the world to tilt, and she grabbed the edge of the sink as the man propped her against the wall beside it. While he twisted the faucet and dampened a washcloth, Monica ventured a look in the mirror.
And was sorry she had.
The battered woman who stared back at her bore little resemblance to the Monica Callahan she knew. One cheek was puffy and bruised, and blood continued to seep out of her nose. An abrasion on her temple capped a massive lump, and her hair was tangled and matted with blood. Her right eye was swollen and blackening, her lip was split, and the gash on her jaw was bleeding.
Iron fingers grasped her chin close to the injured spot, and she gasped as the man jerked her head around. He scrubbed at the blood, his pressure increasing when he encountered an abrasion, as if inflicting discomfort gave him pleasure.
Monica did her best to fight back the whimpers of pain clamoring for release. But she could do nothing to stop the tears that coursed down her cheeks, the salt stinging each raw patch of skin they encountered.
“That’s good enough. Put her over there.” The leader gestured to a blank wall on one side of the room.
Once more, Monica was propelled across the room. The other man positioned her with her back against the wall. Like a firing squad, she thought in panic, wondering for one brief, terrified instant if they were going to shoot her.
But instead of a gun, the man lifted a small digital camera. A bright flash blinded her.
That’s when Monica understood.
She had become the fourth hostage.
More than an hour had passed, and they were no closer to knowing where Monica was than they’d been five minutes after they’d discovered her abduction. And with every second that ticked by, Coop knew the odds of finding her alive diminished exponentially.
Wiping a weary hand down his face, he reached for his BlackBerry as it began to vibrate. Checking the caller ID, he winced.
“Who is it?” Mark looked over from the new command center in the kitchen of the main house. Agents from the Charlottesville FBI office were arriving, and the Richmond ERT was en route.
“The embassy in Kabul. David Callahan, I suspect.” Angling away from his partner, Coop braced for the call. “Cooper here.”
“David Callahan. What happened?” Cold fury tightened the man’s voice.
“I’m sorry, sir. We had excellent security here. We’re still trying to determine how the abductors managed to breach it. An Evidence Response Team is on the way as we speak.”
“I know that. I already talked to Les Coplin. I want to hear your version. How did they know where she was?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“We’re trying to determine that.”
Silence. Coop could feel the man’s seething anger—and his terror—as strongly as if the diplomat was standing inside the room instead of seven thousand miles away.
“Mr. Cooper, I trusted you and your team with my daughter’s life.” Tension chiseled his words into sharp arrow points. “She trusted you. The HRT is supposed to be the best civilian fighting force in the world. Yet you failed me. And her.” He stopped. Drew a harsh breath. “Let me tell you what I expect now. Find her. Save her. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir. We’re doing our best.”
“So far, that hasn’t been good enough. Do better. I’ll be in touch.”
The line went dead.
For half a minute after the diplomat ended the call, Coop stood unmoving, mired in gnawing guilt, struggling to hold on to his composure. Finally, he pulled the phone from his ear and slid it back into the holder on his belt.
“What did he say?”
At Mark’s quiet question, Coop closed his eyes. “Nothing I haven’t already said to myself.”
“This isn’t your fault, Coop.”
He turned toward his friend. “Then whose is it?”
“Everyone shares responsibility. We were all in this together. But I don’t know what else we could have done.” Frowning, Mark raked his fingers through his hair and propped his clenched fists on his hips.
“We could have sent her to the Marine base.”
“That may not have been any safer. Besides, she chose this route.”
“Because she trusted us.”
“We’ll find her, Coop.”
“We have some news.” Rick set his BlackBerry on the table. “The police car patrolling out back was just found on a forest road a quarter of a mile up. The officer was in the trunk.”
“Is he alive?” Mark asked.
“Barely. Two stab wounds. He’s lost a lot of blood. It doesn’t sound good.”
“Any chance we could talk to him?”
“Not according to the officers on the scene. He’s critical. Paramedics are on the way. I’m diverting some of the ERT technicians to that location. They might pick up some tire tracks or footprints.”
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