Against All Odds

by Hannon, Irene

  Had all the horror, all the trauma, been no more than a bad dream?

  She rolled to her side, and the sharp jab of pain in her hip, along with the dull throb in her head and face, answered her question. The nightmare had been real.

  And it wasn’t over yet, she recalled with a start. Her father was critically injured. She needed to pack for a flight to Germany.

  Lifting her arm, she squinted at her watch. Blinked. Looked again. Panicked. That couldn’t be right! She remembered Mark saying they needed to leave by one o’clock for the drive to Andrews. It was five after twelve! And she hadn’t packed yet! Why hadn’t Coop awakened her?

  Propelled by a sense of urgency, she swung her legs to the floor and stood. Too fast. The room tilted, and she groped for the bedpost, clinging to it until the world steadied. Moving with more caution, she worked her way down the hall, her fingers again splayed on the wall for support. The house was quiet, and for a moment she wondered if Coop and Mark had stepped out for some reason. But as she rounded the doorway into the kitchen, she found Coop staring out the window into her backyard, his profile pensive, a mug in his hands.

  “Coop? It’s after twelve! Why didn’t you wake me?”

  He turned toward her, his eyes narrowing a fraction as he scrutinized her. The flicker of some emotion she couldn’t define produced a subtle shift in his expression, and he set the cup on the table before walking toward her.

  “Let’s sit down in the living room for a minute.” He took her arm.

  “Coop, we’re going to be late!” She resisted his gentle pressure and sent him an alarmed look. “I need to pack.”

  “We have time.”

  “No, we don’t! I’m not moving that fast today.” She tried to tug her arm free, but he held fast.

  “Trust me on this, Monica.” His gaze locked on hers, and he repeated his previous comment. “We have time.”

  His tone held a trace of . . . dread, she decided, and sudden panic squeezed the breath from her lungs. “What’s wrong?”

  “Let’s sit.”

  A feeling of impending doom swept over her, and she didn’t resist his third attempt to guide her toward the living room. After easing her down on the couch and finding a pillow for her back, he took the chair at right angles to her and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. He’d shed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, and the haggard planes of his face reminded her she wasn’t the only one who’d had a rough few days.

  “Where’s Mark?” Delaying the inevitable wasn’t going to change Coop’s message, but all at once she didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Not yet.

  “He had a few errands to run. He’ll be back soon.” Taking a deep breath, he wove his fingers through hers, his gaze never releasing hers. “I have some bad news, Monica. My boss called a little while ago. I’m sorry to tell you your dad didn’t make it.”

  She heard the words. Understood them. Couldn’t accept them.

  “I thought you said he was in Landstuhl.”

  “He was. The operation was in progress and going well. But he went into cardiac arrest and suffered a massive heart attack. There was no way to save him. I’m sorry, Monica.”

  Silence fell in the room as she processed the news. She didn’t want to believe it was true. Not when everything else had turned out so well. But Coop wouldn’t lie to her.

  Deep inside, she felt something shatter.

  “Now we’ll never have a chance to try and forge some kind of relationship.” She choked on the last word, swallowed, swiped at the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “Before the bombing . . . did he know I was okay?”

  “He knew we’d located you. And that a rescue operation was in progress.”

  “I’m grateful for that, anyway.” She looked down at their clasped hands, grateful, too, for the presence of this man at this moment. “What do I . . . what happens next?”

  “Someone from the State Department will call you in the next few hours to discuss arrangements. They’ll handle all the details.”

  “I don’t even know what my father would want.” The knowledge saddened her.

  “Given the dangerous nature of his work and his reputation for thoroughness, I suspect he may have left some instructions. Don’t worry about that unless you have to.”

  His BlackBerry began to vibrate, and he automatically reached for it. Checked himself.

  “Go ahead and get it. It might be important.”

  Conceding the point, Coop pulled the phone out of the holder and scanned the caller ID. “Cooper . . . yes . . . yes . . . that’s fine.” He slid it back onto his belt. “Mark will be here in a couple of minutes.”

  “I guess you guys need to get back to Quantico.”

  “It’s Friday afternoon, and I have the weekend off—if you’d like some company.”

  The offer surprised Monica. And the warmth and caring in Coop’s eyes touched a raw, aching place in her soul. Facing the weekend alone would be torture, she realized. There would be decisions to make, red tape to deal with, grief to process. Coop might be new in her life, but she already knew his strength and quiet competence would bolster her in the days ahead. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation in his response.

  Nor in hers. “Then I accept.”

  He lifted his free hand, as if to touch her face, but the doorbell interrupted them.

  “My partner always did have impeccable timing.” One side of his mouth hitched up in a wry half smile. He let his hand fall away, and with a gentle squeeze of her fingers he rose to admit Mark.

  The murmur of quiet conversation sounded in the hall, and a few seconds later Mark appeared in the doorway. He walked over to Monica, dropped into the chair Coop had vacated, and took both her hands in his. “I’m sorry about your father, Monica.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I know Coop is staying this weekend, but if you need anything after that, don’t hesitate to let us know. We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

  “I appreciate that. And everything you guys did.”

  “All in a day’s work.” He flashed her a brief smile, squeezed her hands, and rose.

  After Coop showed him out, he returned holding a pizza box. “Mark brought us some provisions. You need to eat.”

  “Later.” Food held zero appeal for her.

  “Did you have any food yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “How about today?”

  “I had breakfast at the hospital.”

  “Hospital food is an oxymoron. You need real food. And I don’t like to eat alone. Come on, try a few bites.”

  It was hard to refuse, considering all he’d done for her. In the end, Monica capitulated to his entreaties.

  And that’s how the weekend went. Coop cajoled and bartered, somehow convincing her to eat a decent amount of food. He persuaded her to watch some of the old comedies she had in her DVD collection. When the State Department called about funeral arrangements, he sat by her side, holding her hand as she worked through the details.

  She also managed to put quite a dent in the jar of M&Ms.

  Mostly, though, she found herself falling hard for a dark-eyed HRT operator—and wondering what would happen to their relationship now that his mission was over.

  On Sunday night, when Mark drove down from Quantico to pick him up, Coop wasn’t ready to leave. Not even close. As Monica walked him to the door, he turned to her. Her movements weren’t as stiff today, and a tiny bit of her natural color had returned to her cheeks. The puffiness in her eyelid had subsided, and her lips no longer appeared swollen and cracked. But her bruises hadn’t faded one iota. He hated to leave her alone in such a battered condition.

  “I could take a couple of days off.” He’d offered earlier, and she’d refused. He wasn’t certain why he’d brought it up again.

  “No. I’ve monopolized your life too much already. I’m sure you had better things to do this weekend than babysit the walking wounded.”


  He thought about what he’d have done on a normal Saturday and Sunday in Quantico. Gone to a couple of bars. Had a little too much to drink. Shot some pool. Talked up some pretty women. Once upon a time, he would have considered that a perfect weekend.

  Not anymore.

  “No, Monica, I didn’t. There’s nowhere else I’d rather have been.”

  His candor surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise her. Open, honest communication with the opposite sex was new for him. He didn’t typically reveal his deepest feelings to anyone—female or male. But he felt safe with this woman. It was a new—and unsettling—experience.

  “Thank you.”

  Her earnest, whispered response tugged at his heartstrings, reaching deep inside him to reawaken once again the long-buried protective instinct she’d managed to tap into from the moment they met. And her proximity didn’t help matters. She stood close enough for him to catch the faint, fresh fragrance emanating from her hair. To feel her warmth. To see the glints of gold in her green irises and the spark of fire in her russet hair.

  Coop had had no intention of kissing her this weekend. Her emotions were in tatters, and taking advantage of a woman who was still reeling from a traumatic experience didn’t strike him as an honorable thing to do.

  But over the past two days, as they’d chuckled together over old movies, as he’d comforted and consoled when unexpected tears overwhelmed her, as he’d fended off the press while she’d braved their blitz in order to attend church, as they’d shared pizza and M&Ms and confidences, he’d found his resolve wavering.

  Now, as she stared up at him in the dim light of the foyer, he could see she dreaded this parting as much as he did. Perhaps not for quite the same reasons, though, he reminded himself. With all she’d been through, it was only logical she would have welcomed a protector this weekend in her violated home. His presence had helped her feel safe.

  Yet he read more in her expression than that. More, he speculated, than she was aware of. Tenderness. Caring. Longing. Invitation.

  All of which he found impossible to resist.

  Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his bag to the floor and touched her cheek, his fingers whisper soft against her skin. He heard her sharp, indrawn breath, felt her go still, but she didn’t pull away. Nor say a word. She wasn’t in any condition for much of a kiss, let alone an embrace, but he couldn’t leave without erasing any doubts that might be lingering in her mind about whether he’d considered this weekend an imposition.

  Resting his hands lightly on her shoulders, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers. The contact was gentle, caressing. Yet the impact of it reverberated through every nerve in his body, leaving him feeling as unsteady as a newborn colt. He’d shared plenty of kisses with lots of women through the years, but the unexpected potency of this one jolted him.

  Shaken, he pulled back a few inches. Her lips were parted, her respiration shallow and rapid. He was pretty sure she didn’t realize she was clutching the front of his jacket, bunching the leather fabric in both hands.

  “I-Is that part of the job too?” She sounded as wobbly as he felt.

  “I’m not on duty now, Monica.” His voice came out husky, intimate, as he kneaded her slender shoulders, his fingertips tingling from the warmth of her skin radiating through her blouse. Touching her felt good. And right. Walking away felt wrong. But he knew staying wouldn’t be wise, even if she’d accepted his offer. In fact, it would be dangerous.

  Calling on every ounce of his willpower, he released her and stepped back. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And I’ll see you Tuesday at the funeral.”

  “Okay.”

  Bending, he hefted his bag and stepped through the door. He heard it close behind him as he strode toward the car where Mark waited, and when he glanced back, Monica had disappeared.

  But as he climbed into the car and Mark pointed it toward Quantico, Coop knew that no matter how many miles separated them, she wouldn’t disappear from his heart.

  Today, tomorrow, or ever.

  25

  The pure, plaintive notes of “Taps” floated through the still air, sending a chill up Monica’s spine that had nothing to do with the thirty-one-degree temperature on this late February afternoon. Unlike most of the mourners gathered around her father’s flag-draped casket for the graveside committal at Arlington National Cemetery, she didn’t even feel the cold air. She was too numb.

  So much had happened in the past ten days. Too much to process. The events had a surreal quality to them that was heightened by the ethereal rendering of “Taps.”

  But the words of the navy chaplain who’d conducted the service, the rifle volley that had preceded the playing of “Taps,” the presence of the secretary of state a discreet few steps to her left, and the flag-draped casket waiting to be lowered into the cold ground confirmed that every nightmare moment had been all too real.

  At least she’d been spared the ordeal of planning the details of this service, she reflected. As Coop had predicted, her father had outlined his wishes for this eventuality, freeing her from the burden of all but a few decisions. Besides, as she’d discovered, the military was thorough about such matters. They had procedures and protocols for everything, down to the minutia of which seat was reserved for the NOK—next of kin. Left front. Where she sat now.

  In most circumstances, Monica would find such rigid strictures oppressive and stifling. But on a day like this, when her brain wasn’t operating at full efficiency, she was glad the strict protocol rendered thought unnecessary. They’d even sent a limo for her, freeing her from transportation logistics, and supplied an escort from the State Department to guide her through the ceremony.

  The only thing they hadn’t provided was a shoulder to cry on.

  As the bugler sounded the final notes of “Taps,” she searched the small crowd for Coop. He and Mark had been waiting in the background when she arrived at the cemetery. They’d attended the nine o’clock service in Philadelphia for Terry Minard, the agent who’d been killed at the safe house, and driven straight from there to Arlington. She’d wanted desperately to go to the agent’s funeral too, but the secretary of state had expressed a strong interest in attending her father’s service, and one o’clock today had been the most convenient time for him. She’d caved under pressure from the State Department—and regretted it ever since.

  She found Coop in the spot he’d claimed near the back of the crowd. He was watching her, as he had been whenever she’d looked his way during the ten-minute service that had seemed endless. She could read the concern in his eyes even from a distance, and that did more to warm her than her heavy wool coat.

  The final note of “Taps” faded, and she refocused on the scene in front of her. The members of the navy honor guard, in their dark dress uniforms, folded the flag into a precise triangle. The flag bearer presented it to the chaplain, who saluted it and approached her.

  He had a kindly face, Monica thought as he drew near. One that had surely witnessed this exercise thousands of times. Yet she sensed he hadn’t become immune to the turbulent emotions pooled in the small groups of people who clustered each day in tight knots of grief on these quiet, solemn hillsides. The duty hadn’t become routine for him. She appreciated that.

  He stopped in front of her and offered the flag.

  “On behalf of the president of the United States, a grateful nation, and a proud navy, this flag is presented as a token of our appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your father to his country and navy.”

  Monica hadn’t expected the formulaic wording to move her, but as she took the flag she felt the pressure of tears in her throat, behind her eyes. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, saluted the flag, and moved to the side.

  An older woman, accompanied by a navy escort in full dress uniform, took her turn in the well-choreographed service. Monica had been briefed to expect an expression of sympathy from one of the “Arlington Ladies”—wives and widows o
f military personnel who attended every service in the cemetery. The woman’s quiet, sincere words of comfort touched her too.

  Finally, a man in civilian attire stepped forward. “The service has ended. You may now return to your cars.”

  As Monica stood, the secretary of state approached her. She’d often seen the man on TV, but his real-life presence added to the surreal quality of the occasion. He held out his hand, and she found hers taken in a warm clasp.

  “Ms. Callahan, I want you to know how much all of us at the State Department respected and admired your father. He was a man of the highest integrity, and your loss is shared by all of us.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The president and vice president asked me to convey their deepest condolences as well.”

  Monica acknowledged the expression of sympathy with a dip of her head.

  The formalities attended to, the timbre of the man’s voice shifted. “On a more personal note, I considered David a good friend and confidante. I’m not a man whose trust is easily earned, but your father had mine. I’ll miss him very much.” He cleared his throat and reached inside his overcoat to withdraw a thin, legal-sized envelope. “When the embassy staff in Kabul was collecting his personal items for shipment back to the States, they found this on the desk in his quarters. I wanted to deliver it to you myself.” He handed it to her. “I’m sorry for all you’ve been through, Ms. Callahan. If there’s anything the State Department can do to assist you, please let us know.”

  “I appreciate that. And thank you for attending today.”

  “Considering all David Callahan meant to this country and to me, I couldn’t be anywhere else.”

  Once the secretary departed, a steady line of sympathizers moved past Monica. A few of her colleagues from the university had come up for the service, but most of the people were strangers. Residents of her father’s world, members of an elite circle she knew nothing about.

  Coop and Mark brought up the rear, waiting until the crowd had dispersed before stepping forward.