hands.”
“I will.”
With a final assessing look, Coop disappeared down the hall. A couple of minutes later, she heard the front door open, then click shut.
He was gone.
Taking with him whatever residual peace of mind she’d been clinging to. His departure left her feeling abandoned. And uneasy.
This is ridiculous , she berated herself, grabbing a dishcloth to give the spotless counter another vigorous scrubbing. Rick and Mac were in her living room. They were HRT operators too. Just as competent and qualified as Coop and Mark. Hadn’t Coop himself said she was in good hands?
She believed that. She did.
The problem was, they weren’t Coop’s hands.
And for whatever reason, that made a huge difference.
8
“May God go with you, sir.”
Hoisting the bulging Mickey Mouse backpack onto one shoulder, David gave Salam the ghost of a smile. “Thank you. I hope he’s listening.”
It was time. Buttoning his fleece-lined coat against the frosty air, David strode down the hall and exited the office building. His State Department security team was clustered around his car, and every member looked nervous. He understood that. Their job was to protect him, not let him walk into a potential trap. Once the decision had been taken out of their hands, they’d lobbied for at least a few security precautions.
But David’s only concession to their concerns had been a bulletproof vest. Too much was at stake to play games with the informant. He wasn’t about to jeopardize this opportunity by going in armed or wired, as security had suggested.
Besides, no safety measure would shield him from a bomb. He knew that as well as they did.
With a nod to the security team, he slid into the backseat. The door shut behind him. The car moved forward. After a brief pause at the main gate, they pulled onto Airport Road, leaving behind the protection of the walled, heavily fortified embassy.
And as the car headed toward Pushtunistan Square and the bridge that would take them over the Kabul River, David Callahan wondered if this was the day he would die.
“Nouri?” Tariq pressed the cell phone to his ear and peered through the smudged glass, hating the dirt and indigence and destitution that surrounded him. He could afford better, thanks to the opium trade. But he needed to lay low, hide in an obscure hole until this operation was finished. After that, his sacrifices would pay dividends.
“Yes.”
“Is the speech still to be given?” He turned his back on the view. David Callahan had not responded to the threat to his daughter. It was time to take the next step.
“My source says there has been no change.”
“Good. That is your window. Use it.”
“I understand. It will be done.”
The line went dead.
Three thirty-seven.
Squinting at the LED dial on her bedside clock, Monica leaned closer to verify that only twenty sleepless minutes had crawled by since she’d last allowed herself to check the time.
Slowly she sank back onto her pillow and did the math, factoring in the time difference between Richmond and Kabul.
In less than an hour, her father would risk his life in the hope of saving three hostages.
And her.
The refrain that had been echoing in her mind since Coop told her the news replayed again.
He’s willing to die to keep you safe.
But it’s his job.
People don’t choose to die for a job. People die for principles—or love.
He never told me he loved me.
Maybe he’s telling you now, in his own way.
But I wanted to hear the words.
It takes more courage to die than to speak. Yet you didn’t even have the courage to call him.
The guilt pressed down on her, relentless as the oppressive, humid heat of a Richmond summer day, and she swallowed past the sudden pressure of tears in her throat.
Struggling into a sitting position, she flipped on her bedside lamp and reached for the Bible she’d brought in with her from the kitchen. She held it unopened in her unsteady hands, her thumbs
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