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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

W hat could Callan have done differently?

He replayed the events on a continual loop and came up with nothing, but there had to have been a way out. He should’ve anticipated the lights. He should’ve known they’d be caught, should’ve planned better.

If not for Malcolm, Alyssa would be back in Dariush’s custody.

If not for Alyssa, Callan would be dead.

He squeezed his eyes closed. He wasn’t afraid to die, but he had a child now. He’d left field work to care for her. And then he’d dived right back in at the first opportunity.

Idiot. Idiot!

He’d messed everything up, but he couldn’t figure out what he should’ve done differently. Left Alyssa to fend for herself?

No.

Maybe he should’ve.

He didn’t want to consider why it had never occurred to him. He’d seen her, inserted himself, and gotten them both into this mess.

The whole thing had spun out of Callan’s control.

There was nothing, nothing he needed more than to stay in control. Especially now that he had a daughter to consider.

“You okay back there?” Malcolm met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“How’d you know we were in trouble?”

“Saw the lights go on in the trees. Figured you could use a hand.”

Callan hated that he’d needed help. He liked working alone. He was good working alone.

But not good enough.

“Thanks.”

Malcolm nodded.

Callan reached between the seats and slid his hand around Alyssa’s arm. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She twisted to face him. “I’m not the one who got beaten up.”

“I told you to run.”

Her lips twisted into a smirk. “I can’t believe you really thought I was going to leave you.”

“You should have. If they’d caught you?—”

“We’re safe now.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t hide his displeasure, though mixed with that was something else—admiration for her bravery and ingenuity.

Alyssa kept surprising him. He’d always found her beautiful. He’d never questioned her above-average intelligence. Maybe he’d underestimated her because she came from wealth, but the one he named Paris was a lot more than just intelligent and beautiful and rich.

The more he knew her, the more he liked her. Which was exactly the opposite of what he ought to be thinking about.

Callan’s boss had driven too fast along the narrow Brookline streets, ensuring nobody followed, but now that they were on a main road, he slowed to a reasonable pace, glancing at his passenger. “I’m Malcolm Springer.”

“Alyssa Wright. Thank you so much for helping us out.”

“My pleasure. To help you , that is.” He tipped his head back toward Callan. “That guy, on the other hand, is a pain in my rear.”

Alyssa turned toward Callan, and he attempted a smile, though his head was pounding, and nausea churned in his gut.

Mild concussion. That big blond guard had packed a punch.

“There’s water in here.” Malcolm moved his elbow off the armrest between the front seats, and Alyssa opened it. She handed a bottle back to Callan.

“Thanks.”

“You seemed a little off after the fight.” She still wore the T-shirt on her head.

He could’ve reminded her, but he’d been right—she did make it look good.

“Does your head hurt? Should we go to the hospital?”

“I’m fine.” He twisted off the cap and sipped. He was tempted to gulp the whole thing, but he knew better. Small sips until the nausea passed.

“Don’t worry.” Malcolm’s voice was flat, his gaze flicking in the rearview. “He’s got a thick skull.”

Callan ignored him, speaking to Alyssa. “I’m okay.”

She smirked, disbelieving, then faced forward again as they drove into Boston.

“Check the floor back there,” Malcolm said. “Figured you’d need a few things.”

Callan found a black nylon bag and pulled out two phones and chargers. A Glock and holster.

And, thank God, a bottle of ibuprofen. He swallowed four, then removed his sweatshirt, suddenly sweltering despite the cold air. He attached the holster over his T-shirt.

Alyssa turned to see what he was doing.

He winked. “Eyes forward, Paris. Though I know it’s a sight to behold.”

“I’m sure you think so.” She turned forward again.

“You have your wallet, right?” Malcolm asked.

“Caleb’s wallet, yeah. And I stuck Alyssa’s into my bag before we left.”

“Oh, thanks,” she said.

He nodded. “My real creds are at my apartment.”

“Which is secure,” Malcolm said. “No indication anybody knows who you really are, but we’re keeping an eye on it.” To Alyssa, he said, “And your place too. We still don’t know who broke in, but I’ve got a theory. I’ve reached out to sister agencies.”

“You don’t think it was Charles’s people? I mean, Ghazi’s?”

“I don’t.” Malcolm didn’t expound or explain, and for once, Alyssa didn’t ask.

Callan powered up one of the cell phones. He connected to his accounts and saw no missed messages from his family. All was well there, it seemed.

Guilt and shame pressed in, but he shook them off. He’d survived. Nobody would have to tell his daughter that her father had gone and gotten himself killed.

They crossed the Charles River into Cambridge, and Malcolm stopped on a side street a couple of blocks from the CIA field office. He shifted into Park. “Leave this car near your apartment. I have another set of keys.” He climbed out.

When Callan joined him outside, the cold air bit against his damp skin, and he shivered.

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “You okay to drive? You don’t look so good.”

“I’ll drive,” Alyssa said. “Where are we going?”

“You two are getting out of Dodge.” To Callan, he said, “I expect a full report ASAP. As in, within the hour.”

Callan shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.” He wasn’t one to give much deference to his superiors, but for all Malcolm’s anger earlier, the man had saved their hides tonight.

He nodded, said goodbye to Alyssa, then hurried through the chilly April air and turned at the corner.

“If we’re leaving this car, what are we driving?”

“Mine. You sure you’re okay to drive?”

She moved close, right into Callan’s space, and looked from one of his eyes to the other. “Your pupils aren’t dilated, and they’re the same size.”

Her breath fanned his cheek, her nearness making his body react in a way that had nothing to do with his concussion. “Thank you, doctor.” He worked hard for a lighthearted tone. “Did you get your MD while I was in the service?”

“My uncle’s a physician. My cousins were always getting knocked in the head or spraining ankles or breaking bones.” A slight smile graced her lips as if her cousins’ injuries brought fond memories. “I was curious, and Uncle Roger was always patient, explaining what he was doing and why.” She blinked and stepped back. “Anyway, for all I know, you could be dying.”

“I’m fine. Well enough to drive, if you don’t want to.”

Grinning, she slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

He could argue, but Malcolm wanted a report, and the sooner, the better.

When he settled beside her, she asked, “Where to?”

He directed her for the couple of miles to the garage near his apartment, where they left the Agency sedan, then headed for his cherry-red Mustang.

The poor man’s sports car. Maybe it wasn’t a Porsche, but when he hit the gas, it flew.

“This is your car? It’s a little ostentatious for a CIA agent, isn’t it?”

“I’m an analyst." Before she could question him about that, he said, "Long story. Anyway, Caleb-the-salesman can be as ostentatious as he wants.”

They climbed in, and while she headed for the expressway, he pulled up directions to Portland on his phone, then connected it to Bluetooth so they showed on the navigation screen.

He sat back and closed his eyes, breathing in, blowing out.

They were safe, thank God. Much as he hated to need help…

Thank You for sending it.

Thank You that Alyssa wasn’t captured again tonight.

Thank You that my daughter isn’t an orphan.

Not that Peri needed him, or even wanted him.

He’d fallen in love with her the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

But that first day, she’d regarded him through squinted eyes, seeing him as a father who’d never cared about her enough to be in her life. A father who’d abandoned her and her mother to fend for themselves.

Lies. All lies.

But how did one defend himself against the accusations of a dead woman?

It had made sense for Callan to pass off Peri’s care to his parents. They were competent to raise her, whereas he didn’t have a clue. He’d still been in the field then, working overseas. His higher-ups had not been pleased when he’d asked for a transfer to Boston. And out of field work. They’d spent a lot of money training him, and he was throwing it away. His career, his future. To sit at a desk.

But he’d done it, for Peri. Thinking he’d figure out how to be a father. But by the time he’d moved back, Peri had gotten comfortable with his parents. She liked living in that old house in Maine, and he couldn’t blame her. It had been the perfect place to grow up.

How could he take her away from that? Especially when he had no idea how to be father to a grief-stricken eight-year-old who didn’t trust him?

With Peri, Callan was so far out of his depth he needed scuba gear.

At work, Callan knew what he was doing. As long as he could control everything, nothing would go wrong.

Or so he’d always told himself.

Tonight had shown him he was wrong about that, too. If not for Malcolm, Peri would be an orphan.

In those moments during his fight with Benson, one thing had become very clear.

He did not want to die. He did not want to leave his daughter fatherless.

He wanted her to know him, and someday, to love him.

If he’d died tonight, he would never have had the opportunity to prove his love to her.

Of course, he’d always planned to do that, someday. Somehow.

He’d thought he had all the time in the world. Wrong about that too.

He could be taken from Peri.

Or she could be taken from him.

Car accidents. Cancer.

Terrorists.

Nobody was promised tomorrow.

From now on, he’d fight for his daughter, even if it was the hardest fight he’d ever known.