“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.”
“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.”
“The
y’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.”
She blinked. Squinted as if trying to focus. Blinked again. And then, all at once, she emitted a soft sigh, went limp, and loosened her grip on the covers.
“Good girl.” Coop wanted to gather her in his arms, reassure her the nightmare was over. But he settled for a gentle stroke of her cheek.
“HR-61 to TOC. We have two dead subjects.”
Mark’s voice reporting to Les pulled Coop back to the job at hand. He eased the bedspread down, did a cursory scan. The blood on Monica’s pink sweat suit was dried. He saw no additional signs of trauma.
“HR-35 to TOC. Hostage was not injured in the assault.”
“Copy, HR-35. EMTs are on the way.”
Motioning to Mark, Coop pulled the cover back over Monica. “Handle the cleanup here, okay?”
“Sure.” Mark glanced at Coop’s shoulder. “Looks like you got winged.”
Frowning, Coop noted the bloody crease on the outside of his upper arm. Remembered the pistol shot. And the sting. “It had to be the guy by the door. I can’t believe he managed to get off a shot in all that chaos.”
“He must have had his gun out for some reason when we breached and taken a wild shot. You better have that checked out.”
“Later. Monica’s first in line.” He spotted two EMTs in the doorway and waved them in, stepping aside as they took over.
Someone had already briefed them on what was known about her condition, but Coop hovered nearby as they eased her onto her back, snapped on latex gloves, and went to work. One of them wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her arm, another prepared to start an IV.
“Seventy-seven over forty.” The technician removed the blood pressure cuff and checked her heart. “Pulse is rapid, weak and thready.”
At Monica’s sudden flinch, Coop took a step closer. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m having trouble getting the IV in. She’s in shock and shows obvious signs of dehydration. Not a good combination if you’re trying to start a line.”
Coop recalled enough from his first-aid training to know the EMT was probably dealing with collapsed veins from restricted blood flow. But it didn’t ease the knot in his gut when Monica flinched again as the man tried a second time.
“Look, can you take it easy?” The words came out in a low growl as Coop edged in and reached for her free hand, scrutinizing her face. “She’s been hurt enough today.”
“The IV will ease a lot of her discomfort once we get it in.” The man kept working, tapping the inside of her elbow, trying to raise a vein. On his third attempt, the needle slid in. “Got it.” As he taped the needle in place, he spared the HRT operator a quick look. “We were told she’d been drugged. My guess is she’s thrown up and hasn’t had any fluids replenished. The IV will help.”
“She’ll need some stitches in her chin.” The other man spoke as he tested her pupils with a penlight. “It appears she might have a mild to moderate concussion. Plus assorted bruises and abrasions.”
All at once, Monica drew in a sharp breath. Her features contorted, and she struggled to sit up, her eyes hazy with pain.
The EMTs reacted at once. One held her in place while the other attempted to discern the cause of her sudden distress. “Ma’am, we need you to lie still. Can you tell us what’s wrong?”
Her breathing grew more labored, and she thrashed at the restraining hands. “Hurts.” She gasped out the word.
“What hurts?”
“Leg.”
“Which one?”
“Right. Calf.”
The EMT pulled the bedspread all the way down and pushed up the leg of her sweatpants. “Muscle cramp. Common with dehydration.” He looked at Coop. “Can you do some gentle stretching and massage while we deal with the other problems?”
“Yes.” Standing around watching her suffer was agony. He was glad he could do something—anything—to alleviate her pain.
Bracing himself on one knee on the bed, he kneaded the rigid spasm that had convulsed her muscle. It was tight and hard, contracting beneath his fingers, and he worked it with steady, even pressure until at last he felt her tension ebb and her body went limp.
“Okay. We’re ready to transport.” One of the EMTs stood and motioned to another technician hovering in the doorway, who moved a gurney beside the bed. In one smooth motion they transferred her.
Coop knew a medevac chopper was standing by to take her to Richmond. He’d heard it land a few minutes ago. And he intended to hitch a ride.
“I’m going with you,” he told the EMTs as they started to wheel her out. “Give me three minutes.”
The technician facing him acknowledged the instruction with a nod.
As the gurney disappeared out the door, Coop surveyed the room. For the past few minutes he’d been oblivious to the activity taking place behind him. He cast a dispassionate eye on the two kidnappers, still lying where they’d fallen. He focused on the one who had harassed Monica. Perhaps he should feel remorse for taking a life. He didn’t.
“Is she okay?” Mark joined him.
“She will be. I think.” He turned away from the bodies. “I’m going to Richmond with her as soon as I clear it with Les.”
“It’s cleared.”
“Thanks.” Coop shot his partner a grateful look as he stripped off his body armor.
“Les wants us to remain on security detail for the next twenty-four hours, anyway. After we grab a few hours of shut-eye. I’ll join you when we finish up here. The Richmond office will also have agents at the hospital to keep out the press.”
“Good. The last thing she needs is a bunch of reporters in her face.” Coop worked fast, shedding the bulky assault gear. There were few people to whom he’d entrust his equipment, but Mark was one of them. He slid his Glock into the holster on his belt. “I’ll see you in Richmond.”
“Count on it.”
The chopper was waiting, and Coop ducked into the prop wash under the blades, climbed aboard, and found a place next to Monica—near enough to see her but out of the way of the EMTs. Despite the warm blanket they’d tucked around her, she was shaking again as reaction set in. She needed medical treatment, a quiet place to regroup and heal, and lots of TLC.
And Coop intended to see that she got all three.
21
Forty-five minutes later, as the chopper settled on the roof of the main hospital at VCU Medical Center, Coop’s BlackBerry began to vibrate. Pulling it off his belt, he checked the ID. Les.
“Cooper.”
The noise of the rotors overpowered the commander’s response. No small feat, given the man’s booming voice.
“Sorry. We just landed. I’ll be inside in sixty seconds. Can you hold?”
A garbled “yes” came over the line.
The chopper door slid open and the gurney was moved into position for unloading. Coop knew a team from the Level I Trau
ma Center was standing by, and he was grateful the physicians’ skills wouldn’t be taxed tonight.
Once inside the hospital, Coop fell into step behind the gurney as he talked. “Okay. Now I can hear you.”
“I have news. An effort is being made to contain the information as long as possible in light of the looming hostage deadline in Afghanistan, but it may leak, and Ms. Callahan needs to be prepared. Her father’s car was bombed this morning while he was en route to Bagram for his meeting with the secretary of state.”
Stunned, Coop’s step faltered, and he fell back from the gurney. “Is he alive?”
“At last word. He’s being treated at an army field hospital. They’re trying to stabilize him for airlift to Landstuhl.”
Only the most severe battle casualties were sent on to the U.S. military hospital in Germany. He had to be critical.
“What happened?”
“According to initial information, it was an IED.”
Improvised explosive device. Better known in the American media as a roadside bomb.
“Was it related to the hostage situation?” Even as he asked the question, Coop was struggling to make sense of this latest turn of events. After all their efforts to coerce David Callahan into persuading the U.S. and Afghan governments to meet their demands, why would the terrorists attack him on his way to meet with the secretary of state?
“At this point, no one knows. I’ll keep you apprised as details become available. But you need to inform Ms. Callahan. If this breaks, it will be all over the media.”
Propping a shoulder against the wall, Coop wiped a weary hand down his face and watched as they wheeled Monica through a set of swinging doors farther down the hall. “I don’t know how much more she can take today.”
“You pick the timing. But it would be unfortunate if she overheard the news in a conversation or saw it on TV.”
“Yeah. Listen . . . on another subject . . . what did you see on the live feed when you put us on hold during the assault? Did that scumbag—”
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