Egan Cassidy's Kid
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Anger boiled inside Bent, mingling with fear and frustration. He kicked the wall, denting the Sheetrock with his toe. Damn! He couldn’t blast his way out of here. He was stuck, trapped, caught.
Bent flung himself down on the neatly made bed, shoved his crossed arms behind his head and glared up at the ceiling. He had to find a way to get out of here, to free himself from his captors. But how? He didn’t know. But there had to be a way. He sure as hell wasn’t going to give up! Not now. Not ever.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” Janice asked as she stood on the front porch with Maggie. “I can spend the night.”
“No, Egan said to clear the house. He doesn’t want anyone here when he arrives.” Maggie hugged her arms around her as she waited for her friend to leave.
“Why do you trust him? He’s the man who ran out on you and left you pregnant.”
“Egan never made me any promises.”
“No, but he didn’t have a problem taking advantage of you, did he? He sweet-talked his way into your bed, made you fall in love with him and then told you that he wasn’t interested in a committed relationship.”
“None of that matters now,” Maggie said. “All that’s important is that he knows what’s happened to Bent and he’s promised to bring my son home to me.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Aren’t you the least bit suspicious? You haven’t heard from the guy in fifteen years and suddenly, on the very day Bent disappears, he calls to tell you he knows Bent is his son.”
“Yes, of course I’m suspicious. But I know—I know!—that Egan is as concerned about Bent as I am. I could hear it in his voice. He was in pain.” Maggie looked out over the front yard. Streetlights on either end of the block illuminated the manicured lawn and flower beds. She and Bent did all the yard work themselves—a mother and son project.
Janice gave Maggie a tight hug, then released her and walked down the porch steps. “I’m a phone call away. I can be back here in five minutes.”
“Go on home and get some rest. Call me in the morning, if you haven’t heard from me before then.”
“Okay. And don’t worry about the bookstore. I’ll take care of things there.”
Maggie remained on the porch until Janice backed her car out of the driveway, then she turned and went inside the house. In the foyer, the tick of the grandfather clock’s pendulum kept time with her heartbeat. As she made her way through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen, she found herself wishing Janice and the others hadn’t cleaned up after themselves. If they had left dirty glasses and nasty ashtrays, at least she’d have something to do, something to occupy her mind while she waited.
She had thought of nothing else for the past two hours except the fact that Egan Cassidy knew what had happened to Bent. She had gone over at least a dozen possibilities, but not even one plot line was based in reality. Her mind had run the gamut from Bent having left home to find his biological father to someone from Egan’s mercenary world having kidnapped Bent to hold him for ransom.
Maggie found herself alone in the kitchen, her favorite room of the house. All her life, since early childhood when she had hovered at her grandmother’s side and watched her beloved MaMa create mouthwatering meals, Maggie had found her greatest solace in this room.
She had redecorated the kitchen and the master bedroom shortly after her divorce, needing to wipe away any memories of Gil. Forgetting her five-year-marriage to her childhood friend had been easy enough, especially when he had remarried so quickly. In less than six months after their divorce was final. Even then, realizing that he’d probably been unfaithful to her for quite some time, she still couldn’t blame him for the demise of the marriage. How could she hold him at fault when he had always known that he was her second choice, that Bent’s father was the one man she had truly loved?
Rummaging in the cabinets for the ingredients to MaMa’s tea cakes—Bent’s favorite—Maggie let her mind drift back to the first time she ever saw Egan Cassidy. Oh, she’d heard about Egan for years. Bentley had talked about his old war buddy, when he was sober as well as when he was drinking. Her brother had admired and respected Egan in a way he had no other man. Several times over the years, Bentley had gone to Memphis to visit Egan, to share a few days of wine, women and song. But Egan had never come to Parsons City. Not until Bentley died.
Three weeks after Bentley’s funeral she’d gone to the cemetery to put fresh flowers on the grave. Just as she rose from her knees, she noticed someone behind her. The stranger stood by the willow tree at the edge of the Tyson plot. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a move to come toward her. But when she passed him, she looked into his intense dark eyes and saw the pain.
“Did you know my brother?” she asked.
“You’re Maggie, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” She felt drawn to this man, as if he existed solely to comfort her.
“I’m Egan Cassidy. I didn’t find out about Bentley until yesterday,” he explained. “I’ve been out of the country on business.”
“I called and left several messages. And when I didn’t hear from you, I wrote.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for the funeral.”
“He killed himself.” She heard her voice, heard her state the undeniable fact and yet she felt as if someone else were speaking. “He took his pistol, put it in his mouth and pulled—” She burst into tears.
Egan wrapped his arms around her and eased her up against his body, encompassing her in a tender, comforting embrace. “I should have been here for you. Bentley was the best friend I ever had. I owed him my life.”
Maggie had clung to Egan, feeling safe and secure. And knowing that this man shared her grief. Bentley’s Vietnam comrade understood as no one else did what it had been like for her brother. How he had used alcohol as a crutch to get him through each new day.
She had taken Egan Cassidy home with her and he had stayed for seven days. That had been almost fifteen years ago and she hadn’t seen him since.
Maggie mixed the ingredients together with expert precision. She needed no recipe. Indeed, she could prepare these little cakes with her eyes closed. Eggs. Butter—real butter. Flour. Milk. And vanilla. She would make fresh coffee when Egan arrived and serve him tea cakes and coffee in the living room, just as she’d done that day, long ago, when she had opened her home and her heart to Bentley’s friend.
At eleven o’clock, Maggie put away her cooking utensils, stored the tea cakes and the raisin-nut bread she had prepared and tidied up the kitchen. Just as she untied the strings on her apron, the doorbell rang. She jumped as if she’d been shot.
Calm down, she cautioned herself. It took every ounce of her willpower not to fall completely apart, not to scream and cry until she was totally insane. But she couldn’t come unglued. She had to remain strong and in control. For her own sake and for Bent’s sake.
Maggie hung the yellow gingham apron on the back of the Windsor chair at the table, squared her shoulders and marched hurriedly through the house. Before she reached the front door, the bell rang again. He was impatient, she thought. But then, he always had been.
Peering through the glass panes, she saw Egan Cassidy standing on her porch. Big. Tall. Lean. Just as he’d been fifteen years ago. She opened the door.
“Maggie.” He studied her face as if he were trying to memorize it, as if he had forgotten how she looked and never wanted to forget again.
“Come in, Egan.”
His short, jet-black hair was now laced with silver and he wore a neat, closely cropped beard and mustache that gave him a roguish appearance. An aging desperado. A renegade who lived by his own rules.
Khaki slacks covered his long legs, a brown tweed jacket clung to his broad shoulders and a navy blue cotton shirt covered his muscular chest. His appearance belied the dangerous warrior within him.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m alone,” she told him. “I did as you asked and sent everyone home. Janice wanted to stay, but—”
Egan lunged toward Maggie, grabbed her shoulders and shoved her gently back into the foyer. He kicked the door closed with his foot. Maggie gasped when she looked up into his eyes and saw fear. Never in her wildest imagination could she have pictured Egan Cassidy afraid of anything or anyone. He was the type of man who put the fear of God into others. But he was invincible, wasn’t he? He had not only survived Vietnam, but he had somehow managed to remain sane and return to warfare on an international level as a soldier of fortune.
What—or who—was Egan afraid of?
She trembled, her whole body convulsing in one long, uncontrollable shiver. If Egan was afraid, then she had reason to be terrified.
“Why didn’t you tell me that I had a son?” he demanded.
“What?” She tried to pull free of his tenacious hold, but he held her fast.
“If I’d known about Bent, I could have found a way to protect him, to protect both of you!”
“I don’t understand, dammit. What are you talking about? Why would Bent and I need protection?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked again.
Maggie had never thought this day would come. Not really. Oh, she had once fantasized that Egan would learn about Bent and how he would come to her, profess his undying love and claim her and her son for his own. But those daydreams had died a slow, painful death. After waiting five years for Egan’s return, she had finally agreed to marry Gil. Another monumental mistake she’d made.
“Why would I have told you? You’d made it perfectly clear that you and I had no future. You didn’t want any type of commitments in your life. No wife. No children. That is what you said, isn’t it?”
Egan released his grip on her shoulders, but quickly draped his arm around her and led her into the living room. She went with him quite willingly, not having the strength to argue.
“God, Maggie, I’m so sorry.” He stepped away from her and gazed into her eyes. “You’ll never know how sorry I am. You’re the last person on earth I’d want to hurt. I can’t blame you for not telling me about Bent. But heaven help me, I wish you had.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“More than you know.”
“More than—are you saying that you would have cared, that you would have wanted to be a part of our lives?”
“I’m saying that if I had known I had a child, I would have found a way to prevent what happened to Bent.”
“What—what happened to Bent?”
“A man who hates me, a man with whom I endured months of hell in a Vietcong POW camp, a man who has spent over twenty-five years searching for a way to destroy me, has kidnapped our son.”
Chapter 3
Maggie couldn’t feel her body. Numbness claimed her from head to toe. She could hear the roar of Egan’s words as he continued speaking, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying. Suddenly the room began to spin around and around. Maggie reached out, grasping for Egan, but before she could grab him, she fainted dead away.
Egan caught her before she hit the floor, lifted her into his arms and carried her to the sofa. By the time he laid her down and placed a pillow under her head, she opened her eyes and moaned.
“Oh, God.” She tried to sit up, but Egan placed his hand in the middle of her chest and forced her to lie still.
“Are you all right?” He hovered over her, wishing so damned hard that he didn’t have to put her through the nightmare that lay ahead of them. It was unfair that Maggie was suffering because of him.
“I’m all right.” When she looked into his eyes, she smiled weakly. “Really. I’m okay. I don’t know what happened. I’ve never fainted before in my entire life. Not even when I was pregnant with— Oh, God! Bent!” She reached up and grasped the front of Egan’s shirt. “Bent’s been kidnapped by someone who wants to destroy you. This man knows…he knows that Bent is your son. But how?”
Egan helped Maggie to sit up, then eased his big, lanky frame down beside her on the tan-and-cream striped sofa. He ran his hand across the smooth silk fabric, but what he wanted to do was pull Maggie back into his arms. Comfort her. Tell her how sorry he was that this had happened. Beg her to forgive him.
“You put my name on your son’s birth certificate,” Egan said. “Cullen got hold of a copy. And he also has pictures of Bent. He told me that the boy looks a lot like I did when I was eighteen.”
Maggie nodded. “Bent does resemble you. He’s only fourteen and already six feet tall. He has your gray eyes. Your black hair.” Maggie’s quivering hand lifted ever so slowly and reached out toward Egan’s face. “Why, Egan, why?”
They stared into each other’s eyes, each seeking understanding, each sharing a realization that no parent should have to accept.
“He—he…this man you call Cullen, he’s going to kill Bent, isn’t he?”
Maggie’s hand dropped to her side. She sat very still. Egan could hear the sound of her breathing. Silence hung between them like a heavy veil.
“I won’t lie to you, Maggie.” He had never lied to her. Never pretended to be anything other than what he was. Never made her promises he knew he couldn’t keep. “I’m sure that’s Cullen’s plan.”
Maggie gasped loudly and the agony on her face was almost more than Egan could bear. For just a split second he had to close his eyes and shut out the sight of her.
“But Cullen won’t harm Bent,” Egan said. When Maggie’s eyes cleared and she looked to him for hope, he amended his statement. “Not yet. He’ll want me there. To watch.”
Egan shot up off the sofa. How the hell had this happened? He’d been so careful all these years, making sure no woman became important to him, so that Cullen wouldn’t have anyone to use against him. He had given up what most men wanted—a wife, children, a real home—in order to prevent this very thing from ever happening.
Pacing the floor, he forked his fingers through his hair and cursed under his breath. “I’ll move heaven and earth to stop Cullen,” Egan vowed as he halted his prowl and faced Maggie. “I’ll find a way to save Bent.”
Squaring her shoulders, Maggie lifted her chin and glared at Egan. “What did you do to this man to make him hate you so much? Can’t you undo whatever it is you did?” Although she sat perfectly still, her hands folded primly in her lap, there was just a hint of hysteria in her voice. “You can’t let him kill…kill my…” Tears glazed her soft, brown eyes.
Egan rushed to her, dropped down on one knee and grabbed her hands. “If I’d only known about Bent, I could have—”
Maggie jerked away from him, shoved him aside and rose to her feet. “Don’t you dare blame me for this! You keep saying if only you’d known about Bent, as if it’s my fault that he’s been kidnapped by some lunatic who wants to punish you.” She pointed directly at Egan, who rose from his knees to his full six-foot-three height.
“I didn’t mean to imply that this is your fault.”
“Then why don’t you place the blame where it belongs,” she glowered at him, anger and hatred gleaming in her eyes, turning them from brown to black. “You’re the reason my son was kidnapped, the reason his life is in danger. You—” she jabbed her finger into the air, pointing it in his direction and then at herself “—not me.”
“Maggie, let me explain.” He held open his hands, the very act a plea for her understanding.
“Explain what? That you’ve lead such an unsavory life, such a wicked life, that you have evil men, capable of murder, searching for ways to punish you.” Maggie flew toward him, her arms lifted, her hands cupped into taut fists. “The hard, cruel world you chose to live in, the ungodly way you chose to make a living is the reason Bent’s life is in danger.” Maggie hurled her fists into Egan’s chest. “You’ve never cared about anyone—ever! You’ve lived only for yourself, never wanting or needing me or my child. You don’t deserve to be a father!”
Her slender, white fists flayed him repeatedly. He barely felt the blows in a physical sense, but emotionally he felt as if Maggie had stripped him down to his bones, with one angry, cutting accusation after another.
He stood unmoving, allowing her to vent her frustration, to beat her fists against his chest until she was spent. He deserved her hatred. She was right. It was his fault that Cullen had kidnapped Bent.
When Maggie’s blows lost their strength and she seemed barely able to raise her hands, Egan wrapped his arms around her. If only she would allow him to hold her, to comfort her, then perhaps he could find some small amount of comfort himself. Her head lay against his chest as she sucked in her breath, gasping for air. Uncertain how to proceed, Egan lifted one hand to her head and caressed her hair. He remembered how much he had loved Maggie’s long, mahogany-red hair.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’d give anything if I could have spared you.”
As if suddenly realizing that the man who held her was the enemy, Maggie disengaged herself from his embrace and shoved him away. “I don’t want your apologies. Saying I’m sorry now is too little, too late. All I want from you is for you to save Bent.”
“I’m going to do everything—” Egan’s cellular phone rang.
Maggie jumped. “Would he call you on your cell phone?”
“No. There’s not any way he could get this number. All the phones issued to Dundee agents have restricted numbers and operate with a scrambling security frequency.”
Maggie laughed, the sound harsh and brittle. “You’re still in the cloak-and-dagger business, aren’t you?”
“Look, I need to get this,” Egan said, then removed his small cell phone from the clip on his belt. “Yeah?”
“Egan, I’ve called in our top six men,” Ellen Denby, the CEO of the Dundee agency, said. “And I’ve put in a call to Sam to alert him that you’re going to need not only manpower, but that he’ll need to use all his connections to make sure we head up this operation and we get full cooperation from the FBI. By the way, are you already in Alabama?”
“Thanks for handling things for me,” Egan said. “And, yes, I’m in Alabama, with the mother of my child.”
“Any word from the kidnapper?”
“Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.”
“I’ve already called in a few favors of my own,” Ellen told him. “I’ll have a dossier a foot thick on Grant Cullen by morning. I’ll know what toothpaste he buys and how many times a day he uses the john.”
“Have the men on standby,” Egan said. “As soon as we hear from Cullen, I want to move in quick and hit him hard.” When Egan heard Maggie gasp, he glanced across the room at her and their gazes locked. “My one and only objective is to rescue my son. Getting Cullen will be a bonus.” Egan saw the startled look on Maggie’s face, the shock in her eyes, the very minute she realized that in order to save Bent, Egan might have to annihilate his abductor.
“When you’re ready to move, just let me know,” Ellen said.
“You’re the best, Denby.”
“Yeah, and don’t you ever forget it.”
Egan hit the Off button and returned his cell phone to its nest on his hip. “I work for a private security and investigation firm based in Atlanta,” he explained to Maggie, who was staring at him questioningly. “I’ve been with them for a couple of years now. Most of the agents are former special forces or former lawmen, all highly trained professionals. My boss has just called in the top six men at Dundee’s to be ready to act on my command, once we hear from Cullen.”
“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.