“No,” Les interrupted. “He didn’t. Not while we were watching. You’ll have to ask the lady what happened before that.”
A muscle jumped in Coop’s jaw. “I plan to. As soon as I get the chance.”
“Mark will be heading your way in about fifteen minutes. Is security in place at the hospital?”
“I haven’t confirmed it yet.” Coop pushed off from the wall and scanned the area around the double doors where Monica had disappeared. Two men in suits stood close by, one angled away from him. “But I see a couple of guys who have all the earmarks of agents. I’ll verify that after I hang up.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
As Coop slipped the phone back into its holder and approached the two men, both turned his way, posture alert. One of them was Nick Bradley.
“You look a little the worse for wear.” Nick glanced at Coop’s arm.
“Not compared to Monica.”
“Yeah.” Nick frowned and shifted his attention to the double doors. “I got a quick glimpse as they went past. How bad is she?”
“I didn’t hear the EMTs mention anything more serious than shock, concussion, and dehydration. But I’m about to confirm that. Mark’s on his way too. You guys will be out here?”
“Our instructions were to stick close all night.”
“Keep an eye out for media.”
“Hospital security has been beefed up. But should a reporter get this far, I’ve perfected the ‘no comment’ routine and the intimidating stance.” He folded his arms across his chest and glowered.
One corner of Coop’s mouth quirked up. After the horror of the past twenty-four hours, Nick’s touch of humor was welcome.
Turning toward the swinging doors, he prepared to push through—and almost got decked as someone shoved one his direction. His arm shot out and he took an instinctive step back as a fortyish, dark-haired nurse swept through. He estimated her height at five-foot-three, tops, and he doubted she tipped the scales at much above a hundred pounds.
Nevertheless, she planted herself in front of the doors and folded her arms across her chest, her stance an imitation of the one Nick had just used. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the agent’s amused expression.
“This area is restricted.” The woman didn’t appear the least bit bullied by his height advantage or the Glock on his belt, Coop noted. “Only patients are allowed in trauma rooms.”
“I need to see Ms. Callahan.”
“She’s being evaluated. The waiting room is down the hall.”
Widening his stance, Coop settled his fists on his hips and stared down at her. When she didn’t budge, he withdrew his credentials and displayed them. “I need to ask her some questions.”
The woman gave his ID a quick, dismissive perusal. “Is this a matter of life and death, Mr. Cooper? Or a national security issue?” She didn’t surrender a single inch of ground.
Coop debated his strategy. He could lie. He could bluff. He could bluster. But he had the distinct feeling none of those tactics would sway this nurse one iota. Instead, he opted for honesty.
“No.” He tucked his credentials away and relaxed his aggressive stance. “I just need to see her. She’s been through hell, and she took me along with her. I failed her once in the past twenty-four hours. I’d like her to know I’m standing by now.”
For five long, silent seconds, the woman assessed him. If he hadn’t been watching closely, Coop would have missed the almost imperceptible softening in her features. Pursing her lips, she inspected his arm. “That needs attention.”
“It will keep.”
“We don’t like people bleeding all over our waiting room, Mr. Cooper. Why don’t you let us stitch that up?”
“I’d rather see Ms. Callahan.”
She moved closer. Close enough that they’d have been nose-to-nose except for the height difference. “Mr. Cooper, we stitch people up back there.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “The place where we take patients.”
Her strategy finally penetrated his fatigue. “Okay. I guess I do need a few stitches.”
“That’s what I thought. This way.” She pushed back through the swinging doors.
Coop followed without another word.
Mahmud sipped the last of his coffee, nodded to the owner of the tiny café, and stood. He was a regular at the shop, and it was important to maintain his routine on this critical day. If David Callahan didn’t use his considerable influence to convince his government to meet Tariq’s demands, Mahmud could be called on to eliminate the man. Today. And he didn’t want a change in pattern to raise suspicion or suggest he had any links to the diplomat’s demise—or to the current hostage situation. He had ambitions once Tariq regained power, and caution was his ticket to achieving them.
As he left the café, he pulled his robe closer to his body. It would be interesting to see the outcome of the meeting with the American secretary of state, he reflected as he tramped through the snow that had blanketed the city overnight. Tariq believed the pressure he had exerted would work. Mahmud remained unconvinced.
Communicating his doubts about strategy to Tariq, however, had been a mistake. One he would have to amend after the current situation was resolved. He hated groveling, but it might be necessary. Whether or not Tariq’s plan succeeded, the man wielded considerable influence and power, and he’d built up a remarkable covert organization. In time, Mahmud believed Tariq would reach his goal of regaining a position of influence in the government. He couldn’t afford to alienate the man.
Yes, an apology was in order.
His head bent against the wind, his thoughts turned inward, Mahmud didn’t realize he had company until a man drew up beside him, matching him pace for pace. His hand instinctively went to the gun concealed in his robe, closing around the handle.
“I have been sent by Tariq.”
Startled, Mahmud looked over at his unexpected companion. Though a scarf covered the lower part of the man’s face and his head remained in profile, Mahmud recognized him as one of Tariq’s men. His hand relaxed on the gun. They’d met once, during a summit with the leader. Mahmud didn’t know the man’s name, only that he was playing some role in the hostage situation. Since Tariq always cautioned his people never to meet in public, Mahmud was taken aback by the man’s presence.
“We should not be seen together.”
“This will be a brief meeting. I have a message for you from Tariq.”
“Why did he not call me himself?”
“He requested that this be delivered in person.” The man tipped his head toward an alley ahead on their right. “Let us pause for a moment where we will not be observed.”
With a worried glance, Mahmud scanned the narrow side street. Few people were about, but talking with this man was dangerous. Better to get the message and part company as soon as possible.
Striding ahead, Mahmud took a few steps into the shadowed alley and swung toward the messenger. “Let us not linger. Tell me what—”
Mahmud saw the gun and heard the muffled pop . . . once, twice, three times in rapid succession . . . before the man’s intent even registered. He staggered back, stunned.
Fell.
Watched the white snow turn red as the world faded to black.
She could focus again. Sort of.
Blinking, Monica stared at the ceiling above her. She felt as if she was finally coming back from some no-man’s-land. A nightmare place where people were intent on hurting her. Where fear clawed at her throat. Where hands touched her with malice and evil intent.
Her fingers curled into tight balls, and she fought back the sudden panic that swept over her. She wasn’t in that place anymore. It was over. Coop had told her that. His comforting voice was her one clear memory from the past few hours.
Nevertheless, it took several slow, deep breaths to slow her pulse. Once it returned to a more normal pace, she inspected her surroundings. The curtained cube told her she was in a hospital. An IV hung by the side of the b
ed, and she followed the tube down to her arm. The black and blue skin suggested someone had used her arm as a pincushion while inserting the needle.
But that was the least of her complaints, she decided, as she took an inventory. The vision in her right eye remained a bit fuzzy, but a gentle probing explained why. The lid was swollen half shut. She brushed her fingertips over her forehead and discovered a sensitive, sizeable lump. That accounted for the dull, aching throb in her head. Her nose was tender to the touch too.
Working her way down her face, she stroked an exploratory finger over her cracked, puffy lips, encountering a scabbed-over cut. There was a strip of gauze taped to her chin and another smaller bandage on her neck. Her fingers lingered there for a second as she wrestled into submission the terrifying memory of the knife pressed against her throat.
Okay, so much for her head. Based on the glimpse she’d gotten of herself in the mirror at that motel room, there were no surprises there.
Shifting slightly, she tried to assess the condition of the rest of her body. Every inch ached, but there didn’t appear to be any serious damage. When she tried to roll a bit to one side, however, she gasped in pain as her hip encountered the mattress.
“Big bruise.”
With a gasp, she jerked her head toward the voice. A black-haired nurse entered the curtained cube and began checking her vitals. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. How are you feeling?”
“Like a truck ran over me.” Her words came out in a raspy croak.
“Close enough. You met up with some very nasty characters. Would you like a drink of water?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The woman retrieved a cup from the small table beside the bed, and Monica took the straw between her parched lips, drinking greedily. She emptied the contents.
“Better?”
“Much. What can you tell me about my condition?”
“Concussion, dehydration, assorted bumps and bruises, a few stitches.” The nurse refilled the cup from a carafe and set it back on the table. “My guess is you’ve had better days. We’re waiting for a couple more test results and the X-rays from your nose, but nothing we’ve found so far indicates any serious damage. If everything comes back okay, you should be fine after a few days of rest.”
The woman draped the stethoscope around her neck and checked the IV drip. “By the way, there’s a man prowling around our hall who is going to go ballistic if I keep him out of here five more minutes. Do you feel up to a visitor?”
“Is it Coop?”
“If you mean Evan Cooper from the FBI, yes, that would be the man. Patience is not his long suit.”
“Maybe not. But I think he saved my life.”
“Not a bad credential for entry. Shall I send him in?”
“Please.”
“The doctor will be around to talk to you soon. In the meantime, I don’t think you’ll be bored.” She winked and pushed through the curtain that offered the barest modicum of privacy to patients in the trauma center.
Two minutes later, Coop swept the drape aside, his gaze probing, assessing. When he spoke, his voice was several shades deeper than usual. “Hi.”
“Hi.” She tried to smile, but it hurt too much. Yet she wanted to reassure him she was okay. Wipe the worry from his eyes, ease the lines of strain around his mouth, erase the fatigue from his features. “I’m okay, Coop. I won’t win any beauty contests for a while, but at least purple is one of my colors.” She did her best to adopt a teasing tone.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he shook his head. “You are one amazing woman.”
The compliment surprised her. Touched her. Threw her off balance. Coop had struck her as a man uncomfortable with verbal expressions of emotion or compliments. Why the change? Unsure how to respond, she countered with levity. “Have you been reading my book?”
“I haven’t had much time recently for leisure pursuits.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “But I absorbed a lot that first night. And I learned quite a bit about communication from an excellent lecture I attended a few days ago too.”
The man was full of surprises. After everything he’d been through, she’d expected him to be more taciturn than usual. Instead, the experience seemed to have had the reverse effect. It was a pleasing change, but she wasn’t up to a personal exchange yet. First she had to figure out why her feelings for this man were so potent, given that he hadn’t even been in her life until a week ago.
Once again, she retreated behind the armor of humor. “Did you come to spring me?”
“Nope. They’re waiting for a few test results before they admit you.”
“I don’t want to be admitted. I want to go home.”
“Not an option tonight.” His tone brooked no argument. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
He stepped inside, turning to pull the curtain behind him. That’s when his attire registered. He was wearing the top of a pair of green surgical scrubs, she realized. And there was a large piece of taped gauze near shoulder level, on the outside of his arm.
“What happened to you?”
He moved beside her. “It’s just a crease. I needed a few stitches.”
“How many?”
“I didn’t count.”
“Come on, Coop. How many?”
He shrugged. “A dozen, I think.”
Coop had suffered a bullet wound because of her. And he may not have been the only one. She drew in a shaky breath and braced herself.
“Who else got hurt?”
“In the rescue operation? No one except the kidnappers.”
“Before that.”
“We can talk about the details later, Monica.”
“No, now. I need to know.”
He scrutinized her, debating how much to share. Considering the other bad news he needed to pass on, he’d prefer to postpone this recap. But her intense expression suggested she wouldn’t go for that. And he couldn’t lie to her. “The police officer patrolling the road behind the safe house. And one of the agents on perimeter patrol.”
“How bad are they?”
“Last I heard, the officer was critical and in surgery.”
“What about the agent?”
A beat of silence ticked by. “He didn’t make it.”
“Oh, God.” The agonized words came out half prayer, half lament, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “All because of me.” Her voice broke.
“None of this was your fault, Monica.” He took her cold hand in his, infusing her fingers with his warmth. It wasn’t professional behavior for an on-duty operator, but he didn’t care. Her need for consolation outweighed protocol.
Tears leaked from beneath her eyelids. “Can you get me an update on the officer’s condition?”
“I’ll work on it.”
He brushed a few strands of hair off her forehead, his gut clenching at her misery. She was struggling to keep her tears in check, and he wanted to tell her to let them flow. She deserved a cleansing cry. Needed one. Her fierce grip on his fingers was a clear indication of the coiled tension begging for release. Unfortunately, the news from Les was only going to exacerbate her stress.
All at once a memory of Joey Brummett, the vicious, cruel bully in his grade school, flashed through his mind. There were a few things Coop found difficult to tolerate. Preying on the innocent and defenseless was one of them. And kicking someone when they were down ranked near the top of his list. That had been Joey’s modus operandi. Nor had his sadism been confined to people. Coop had found him once poking a sharpened stick at an injured puppy he’d confined in a wooden shipping case. Though Coop had rescued the furry little critter, its pitiful whines had echoed in his mind for weeks afterward.
Trying to balance the scales of justice so the grown-up bad guys of the world didn’t win was one of the reasons he’d joined the FBI.
Except at this moment, as he regarded Monica’s battered face and prepared to pass on the information Les had shared, he felt more lik
e Joey Brummett.
“Monica, before I check on the officer, we need to talk about a couple of things.”
She searched his eyes, her own filled with apprehension. “Okay.”
He propped one hip on the edge of her bed, taking care to jostle it as little as possible, and kept her hand in his firm clasp. “We used a fiber-optic camera in the air duct to monitor the activity in the motel room where you were held, and we saw one of the abductors touch you in . . . an inappropriate manner.” Soft color suffused her cheeks, and a shudder rippled through her. He tightened his grip, his gaze flicking to the ring of bruises on her wrist before it locked on hers. “Did he do anything else to you?”
“No. He just . . . touched me.” Her reply came out in a whisper, and she shuddered again.
“Were you unconscious at all?”
“Not after we got to the motel.”
He let out a long, slow breath as the tension in his shoulders abated slightly. But not much. He still had a difficult task ahead.
“I have some news from Afghanistan.” He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, wishing there was some way to break this gently. But the harsh fact couldn’t be softened.
“The hostages . . . did the terrorists . . .” Her complexion paled and her voice trailed off.
“No. As far as I know, they’ll be okay for another couple of hours. This news is about your father.”
“Did he have the meeting with the secretary of state? What did they decide?”
“He never made it to the meeting, Monica.” He took a fortifying breath. “His motorcade was hit by a roadside bomb.”
What little healthy color had survived in her cheeks disappeared, leaving the ugly bruises stark against her white skin.
“He’s being treated at an army field hospital and will be airlifted to the military hospital in Germany as soon as he’s stable.”
“He’s alive, then.” Her words came out choked.
“Yes. But he is very, very critical.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. One leaked out to trail down her cheek, and Coop brushed it away with a gentle finger.
“We were going to have dinner together. In Washington.” Her voice choked.
Against All Odds Page 24