Egan Cassidy's Kid

“You’re planning Bent’s rescue as if it’s a commando attack, as if this man Cullen is going to tell you where he has Bent and invite you to come and get him.” Maggie flung her hands out on either side of her body in an are-you-insane? gesture. “This is my child’s life we’re talking about. I’m going to call the FBI right now. I’ve had enough of this craziness.”

Maggie swerved around and headed toward the white and gold telephone sitting atop the chinoiserie cabinet positioned along the back wall. Egan reached her in three giant strides and grabbed her arm just as she lifted the receiver.

“Put the phone down.” His voice brooked no refusal.

Maggie glared at him, hesitating to obey his command. When he tightened his hold on her arm, she winced. “Why should I listen to you? Why should I do what you tell me to do?”

“Because handling this situation my way is the only chance we have of getting our son back alive.”

Maggie continued staring at Egan, but she gradually lowered her arm and replaced the telephone receiver. “So, what do we do now?”

Egan released her and when she rubbed her arm, he realized he might have held her too tightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, not really. You just don’t know your own strength.”

“You’ve got to believe me, Maggie, I’d never intentionally hurt you.”

“That’s debatable,” she told him. “But it isn’t important. Not anymore. But you didn’t answer my question, what do we do now?”

“We wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Wait for Grant Cullen to call us and give us his demands.”

Grant Cullen strolled the grounds of his secluded Arizona camp, hidden away in the mountains southeast of Flagstaff. It had taken him years to build and stock his retreat and to man it with his own army. His troops, though few in number, were well-trained young men—schooled personally by him. Two dozen well-trained and obedient followers were worth more to him than a hundred ordinary men.

He had founded the Ultimate Survivalists thirteen years ago when he had realized that eventually he and other brave souls would have to defend themselves against an ever strengthening left-wing, liberal government. There were many men such as he who felt it their God given right to govern their own lives without interference from Uncle Sam. The time would come when chaos would reign and only those who had prepared themselves for the confrontation would survive. When martial law was declared and men were stripped of their rights and their weapons, he and his followers would be prepared to fight to the death.

He had spent a lifetime acquiring the means to secure land in the United States and create a hideaway where he could retreat after every mercenary mission. He and Egan had been in the same line of business, ever since they’d returned from Nam. The only difference was that he hadn’t been choosy about the people who hired him. He had no allegiances to any country, not even his own. He hired out to the highest bidder and did whatever nasty little chore that needed to be done.

And all the while he had been planning and preparing, he had known this day would come. The day of reckoning. The day he would finally have the revenge that was long overdue.

His rottweilers, Patton and MacArthur, trotted on either side of him, two ever-alert canines with the same killer instincts he himself possessed. And like the men under his command, obedient unto death.

After sunset, even springtime in the mountains maintained winterlike temperatures and tonight was no exception. A cold north wind whipped around Grant’s shoulders. He breathed deeply, dragging in as much fresh, crisp air as his lungs would hold. Invigorated by thoughts of triumph over his nemesis, he experienced a feeling of pure happiness that he hadn’t known since before Nam. Before having been a POW. Before having had his promising military career destroyed by an eighteen-year-old recruit with a Boy Scout mentality.

Grant Cullen had been the son, grandson and great-grandson of West Point graduates and no one had been prouder than he the day his name was added to that family tradition. And no one had been more willing to serve his country than he. Everyone who knew him had been certain that he would one day be a great general, just as his heroes, George Patton and Douglas MacArthur had been.

But Egan Cassidy had ruined any chances he’d had of a distinguished military career. Once Cassidy had exposed him as a traitor, even his own father had turned against him. It had been his word against Cassidy’s until that snot-nosed Vietcong major had been captured and had collaborated Cassidy’s story.

Revenge had been a long time coming, but finally Cassidy was going to get what he deserved. He was going to learn what real suffering was all about.

Grant entered the two-story fortress through the wrought-iron gates that opened up into an outdoor foyer. Two guards, one outside the gate and one inside saluted him when he passed by. He marched into the interior entrance hall, the rottweilers at his heels.

“Winn! Winn!” Grant called loudly. “Where the hell are you?”

The stocky, hard-as-nails Winn Sherman, stormed down the long corridor that led from Grant’s office and met his commander halfway. “Yes, sir!” He clicked his heels and saluted.

“Bring the boy to my office.” Grant checked the time. “In exactly forty-eight minutes. I’ll be making a phone call precisely at three o’clock and I want young Bent Douglas to say a few words to the folks at home.”

The corners of Winn’s thin lips curved into a smile. Grant liked his protégé, a man who shared Grant’s thoughts and beliefs. A man he trusted as he trusted few others.

“You will personally be in charge of Cassidy’s son from now until…” Grant laughed heartily, as he contemplated the various ways he could kill the boy—slowly and painfully while his father and mother watched.

In her peripheral vision Maggie saw Egan down the last drops of his third cup of coffee and then set the Lenox cup on the saucer that rested on the silver serving tray. The grandfather clock in the foyer struck the half hour. Maggie lifted her head from where it rested on the curved extension of the wing chair. Instant calculations told her it was now two-thirty. Her muscles ached from tension. Her frazzled nerves kept her on the verge of tears at any given moment. And her heart ached with a burden almost too great to bear. No mother should ever have to endure what she was being forced to endure.

But she had never been a pessimist or a quitter or a whiner. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up hope. She had to trust Egan, had to believe that he could do what he had promised—save their son. But who did he think he was, some kind of superhero? Maybe he was a rough, tough, mean son of a bitch. Maybe he did know a hundred and one ways to kill a man. And maybe he did have an elite force of Dundee agents prepared to do battle with him. But did that mean he could rescue Bent?

She watched Egan as he treaded across the Persian rug centered in the middle of the living-room floor. Weariness sat on his broad shoulders like an invisible weight. He plopped down on the couch and tossed aside a white brocade throw pillow, which landed on its mate at the opposite end of the camelback sofa. Bending at the waist, he dangled his hands between his spread legs and gazed down at his feet. He repeatedly tapped his fingertips together and patted his right foot against the hardwood surface, just inches shy of the large, intricately patterned rug.

Her feminine instinct told Maggie that Egan was suffering in his own strong, silent way. He hadn’t shed a tear. Hadn’t shown much emotion at all, except anger. And he most certainly hadn’t fainted, as she had. But she knew he was in pain. In some strange way she could feel his agony and understood that he probably could feel hers just as intensely.

Was he feeling guilty? she wondered. He should feel guilty! Because of something in his past, her son’s life now depended upon the whims of a madman.

A part of Maggie hated Egan, more than she’d ever thought possible to hate anyone. But a part of her pitied him and shared his grief. And yet another part of her, a small, nagging emotion buried deep inside, still cared for him.

You fool! she chastised herself. This is the man who broke your heart. He left you and never looked back. He didn’t want you and he wouldn’t have wanted Bent. The only reason he wishes he’d known of his son’s existence is so he could have figured out some way to have protected Bent from Grant Cullen.

Don’t you ever forget what kind of man Egan is. You were naive enough once to think that your love could change him, could liberate him from the bonds of a lonely, unhappy existence.

“Would you like me to make some fresh coffee?” she asked.

Egan’s head snapped up; his eyes focused on her. “Yeah, sure. And maybe something to eat, for both of us. I’ll bet you haven’t had a bite since lunch yesterday, have you?”

“I’ll fix you something,” she said. “I don’t think I could eat anything.”

“Why don’t I go into the kitchen with you and we’ll fix something together, and then I want you to try to eat something. You can’t help Bent by making yourself sick.”

I can’t help Bent at all, she felt like screaming. But she held herself in check, suppressing the urge to rant and rave.

Egan stood, walked over to her and held out his hand. She stared at his big hand, studying his wide, thick fingers, dusted with dark hair just below the knuckles. A tingling awareness spread through Maggie as she recalled exactly how hairy Egan was. Dark curls covered his muscular arms and long legs. Thick swirls of black hair coated his chest, narrowing into a V across his belly and widening again around his sex.

Sensual heat spread through Maggie, flushing her skin and warming her insides. How could she be reacting to Egan sexually at a time like this? her conscience taunted. What sort of power did this man have over her, that after fifteen years, she was still drawn to him in the same stomach-churning, femininity-clenching way?

Apparently tired of waiting for a response from her, Egan reached out, grasped her hand and hauled her to her feet. She wavered slightly, her legs weak, as she stood facing him, her gaze level with his neck. He had once teased her about being tall and leggy.

I’m a leg man, he had said. And you, Maggie my love, fulfill all my fantasies.

Without asking permission, Egan slipped his arms around her waist and held her, but didn’t tug her up against him. “You haven’t changed much, Maggie. You’re still… You’re even more beautiful than you were the first time I saw you.”

She told herself to move away from him, to demand that he release her and never touch her again. But she knew that all she had to do was slip out of his hold. His grip on her was tentative, featherlight and easily escaped.

Everything that was female within her longed to lean on him, to seek comfort and support in the power of his strong arms and big body. She was so alone and had been for what seemed like a lifetime. And who better than her son’s father to give her the solace she so desperately needed at a time like this?

Don’t succumb to this momentary weakness, to the seduction of Egan’s powerful presence and manly strength, an inner voice warned. If you do, you’ll regret it.

She lifted her gaze to meet Egan’s and almost drowned in the gentle, concerned depths of his gunmetal-gray eyes. “I have changed,” she told him. “I have very little in common with that starry-eyed, twenty-three-year-old girl who rushed into your arms…and into your bed, without a second thought.”