The Equalisers: A Soldier's Oath

Her gaze locked with his. He didn’t miss the determination there or the underlying fear. She might want him to believe that she wasn’t afraid, but she was. She was very afraid. As she should be.

“If I have to make a choice between saving you or saving the child, I will save the child.” He allowed the ramifications of those words to sink in a second or two before he continued. “Are you prepared to die knowing that your death possibly equates to a forfeit?”

Three, four, then five beats passed.

“Yes.”

So much for his scare tactics. “In that case,” he relented, “we’ll begin preparations tomorrow.”

Chapter Four

Tuesday, February 22

Spencer spread the map of Kuwait City over his desk and considered his strategy. The major streets ran in east-west rings starting with 1st Ring Road in the heart of the city all the way to 6th Ring near the airport. North-south streets intersected the rings. The al-Shimmari estate sprawled in the Suilhibikat area wedged between 2nd Ring Road and 3rd. This was where most of the wealthy Kuwaiti families resided.

The al-Shimmari residence was twenty thousand square feet protected by towering security walls as well as armed guards. According to his mother, the boy, Ata, was never out of sight of the grandmother, who was extremely possessive, or at least one personal-security guard.

The ex-husband, Khaled, had high-level government connections. Which meant Spencer couldn’t risk entering the country accompanied by Ms. Willow Harris. Before she would have time to clear customs Khaled would know she was in-country.

That one was a no-brainer.

Spencer had been surprised at the kind of connections Jim Colby himself had right here in Chicago. Fake papers for Willow Harris and her son had been as easy to get as filling a prescription at a local pharmacy. The quality of the passports and driver’s license was remarkable. He wasn’t the slightest bit worried about her papers being flagged, here or there.

What did worry the hell out of him was her. His mission would involve getting as close to the target as possible without being noticed by the enemy. He had no doubt that, if given a careful block of instruction, he could count on her full cooperation in whatever capacity he deemed operationally necessary. His primary concern, however, was whether or not she would be able to maintain any sort of objectivity, much less keep a handle on her emotions. Seeing her child again for the first time after so many months would take an immediate toll.

He didn’t know her, other than what he’d seen and heard so far, but there was no reason for him to believe that she would behave any differently than any other mother thrust into a situation such as this.

Human emotion had no place in a covert operation.

He had been trained to set aside all emotion and to focus on attaining the target. Willow had no training whatsoever other than in how to negotiate and maneuver stocks and bonds. She was ill-prepared for this operation and, unfortunately, he hadn’t come up with a legitimate reason to change her mind about full participation. He had spoken with Jim Colby regarding his reservations about her involvement. Jim had left the ball in his court.

If Spencer didn’t think he could accomplish the mission with her in tow, then he could pass with Jim’s blessings. Willow Harris would simply have to go elsewhere for help in retrieving her son.

That was the thing, though. Spencer was reasonably sure he could accomplish the mission either way. It was those pesky variables that troubled him. If his or someone else’s timing was off, if there were unexpected changes in location or the body count of the enemy… any one of a hundred different scenarios could alter a single reaction, resulting in devastating consequences.

He didn’t want to get this woman injured or killed. He’d watched his team members slaughtered on that mission five years ago and he had no desire to go through an encore performance.

Every time he’d thought about telling Willow Harris that he just couldn’t take the risk, he remembered the haunting pain in her eyes. The elemental need to hold her child in her arms again. No one should have to go through that kind of agony, especially not alone.

When it came to variables there were plenty, it seemed, in Willow’s personal life, the circumstances with her child aside. She appeared to be completely on her own with no support network. Yet her mother and father, according to his research, were still alive. She drifted from job to job, sticking mainly with temporary agencies for any kind of work for which she possessed the qualifications. She lived in the kind of apartments most people would consider barely a cut above the slums. Evidently most of what she’d earned and/or saved had gone into the pockets of one P.I. after the other. She’d forked over the firm’s required retainer fee without blinking an eye. Yet the motel she’d selected was one whose clientele rented more often by the hour than the night.

From all accounts she had sacrificed a great deal in hopes of getting her son back.

Spencer scrubbed his hand over his jaw. Man, he couldn’t allow feelings of sympathy to sneak up on him like that. He was real sorry for her troubles, but sympathy, no matter how well-placed, led to trouble. He’d learned that the hard way. He could not—would not—get personally involved on this case or any other.

He had a fresh start here, he wasn’t about to let anything or anyone screw it up. He had a job to do, end of story. Feeling sorry for a client wouldn’t get the job done. He had to remember that. Allowing emotions to slip in would lead him straight back to his old buddy… booze. No vulnerabilities. If he permitted a single chink in his armor of determination he’d live to regret it.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, followed by the receptionist’s voice. “Spencer, your two o’clock is here.”

Willow Harris.

He’d told her to come in around two. He’d known it would take most of the morning to pull together the necessary documentation. Next he would lay out his plan for her approval. Moving forward with actual travel plans would be foolhardy prior to getting her on board with his change of identity strategy.

“Thanks, Connie. Send her on back.”

“Fine,” the receptionist huffed before disconnecting.

Spencer shook his head. He didn’t quite get this one. Connie Gardener was extremely intelligent and intensely focused. She was a definite asset when it came to research and planning. But the lady had no people skills. None whatsoever. She’d just as soon tell you to drop dead as to say good morning, depending upon her mood. And that predilection extended to the boss as well as to Spencer or the mailman or anyone else who stuck his or her head through the door. Somehow, Connie just didn’t get that she was a receptionist at this firm. Being receptive and polite was part of her job.

Spencer supposed Jim Colby saw beyond her prickly personality to the definite asset beneath. As long as she didn’t actually run off any clients, Spencer didn’t have a problem with her. Considering most of their clients would likely be as desperate for help as Willow Harris, he doubted even a snarky receptionist would keep those in need away. He had to assume Colby had some reason Spencer didn’t know about for hiring and keeping the woman in spite of her lack of tact.

Willow Harris appeared at his open door just then, dragging his attention back to the more pressing problem at hand. She wore another skirt today, this one pink. The hem brushed her knees the same as yesterday’s navy one had. Despite the conservative length of the skirt, the straight, slightly narrow fit flattered her petite figure. A pink sweater and sensible brown flats completed her wardrobe. She looked nice if not trendy.

“Good morning, Ms. Harris.”

Her lips tilted in the expected expression of politeness, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Mr. Anders.”

“Have a seat.” He indicated the chair in front of his desk. “I was about to get a refill.” He picked up his coffee cup. “Would you like a cup? Or maybe a soft drink?”

“Coffee would be nice. Thank you.” She took a seat, careful to tug her skirt down as far as it would go before primly crossing her legs.

“I’ll be right back.” He paused at his door and studied her a moment. With her back to him, he could do so without rousing her suspicion or her questions.

She shifted in her seat a couple of times before she appeared to get comfortable. Her hands trembled once, twice, as she attempted to figure out what to do with them.

As calm as she wanted to appear, she was nervous.

About whether or not he could get the job done? he wondered, doubt creeping in despite his best efforts.

Or was her apprehension related to returning to Kuwait and possibly having to face her former husband?

Spencer turned, his movements soundless, and headed for the small employee lounge. Her apprehension would have to be addressed before they moved forward. He would need to know exactly how she felt and why she felt that way. She needed to think long and hard about whether or not she could really handle the coming emotional storm. Nothing about this mission was going to be easy.

“Anders, do you have a moment?”

Spencer turned from the coffeepot at the sound of Jim Colby’s voice. His new boss and partner came into the lounge accompanied by a female. Thirty-two, thirty-three. Elegant business suit. Dark hair pulled away from her face, not a single strand out of place.

The prosecutor. What was her name? Oh, yeah. Renee Vaughn. From Atlanta. Colby had mentioned her. She’d come by for an interview yesterday, but Spencer had missed her.

“Sure.” Spencer sat his coffee cup aside.

“This is Renee Vaughn from Atlanta. She’s joining our team.” To the lady, he said, “Anders is former military—Special Forces.”

Vaughn thrust out her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Anders.”

Spencer gave her hand a shake. She had a firm grip and a definite no-nonsense air about her. “Good to have you on board, Ms. Vaughn.”

“Mr. Colby!” Connie shouted unceremoniously. “You’ve got a call on line one!”