The Equalisers: A Soldier's Oath

Chapter Three

6:20 p.m.

Over three hours.

Willow had left Jim Colby’s office at three o’clock. He’d promised to call as soon as he was prepared to brief her on his strategy for recovering her son.

She’d checked into a motel close by. She’d been waiting ever since.

Her cell phone lay on the bedside table, the charging icon blinking. She’d almost forgotten to plug it in. That would have been bad. That portable device had become her lifeline in the past few months. She never knew when the P.I. currently working her case would need to reach her, so she’d kept the thing turned on 24/7.

She thought about Jim Colby and his insistence that he would ensure she got her son back. That was definitely a first. She’d had several ambitious P.I.s claim they could handle her case upon initial acceptance, but not one had looked her dead in the eye and stated unequivocally that he would get the job done.

A blend of hope and uncertainty twisted in her chest. Could Jim Colby really do this?

Who was this man who would dare to make such a promise?

Before coming to Chicago she had looked up what she could about him on the Internet, but most of the stuff that had popped up on her search was actually about his mother and her private investigations agency. His past appeared to have fallen beneath the radar somehow. Whether that was good or bad she hadn’t decided just yet.

But if he could get her son back she didn’t care what lay behind that slightly marred, flinty face. Who he was didn’t really matter. All that mattered was whether or not he could do what he said he could do.

She wanted desperately to cling to that hope, but she needed to know more before she let herself believe fully in this man. However prestigious his mother’s reputation, he was an unknown and unproven entity.

God, she was so tired. She’d barely slept last night. As much as she wanted to crash and sleep for hours, she couldn’t do that until she had some indication of what would happen next.

… you’re looking for a miracle…

Maybe Davenport had been right. Maybe she was looking for a miracle. She’d certainly had the kind recounted in the Bible told to her over and over again as a child, but did real miracles actually happen anymore? And the next question was, had she found that miracle, if it really did exist, in the Equalizers?

A knock on the door of her motel room had her practically jumping out of her skin.

Housekeeping? Surely not at this hour. No one knew she was in Chicago. Not that she had anyone. Even her folks had disowned her when she married someone they considered a terrorist. That had been the kinder of the names they had given him.

Evidently they had been right after all. Certainly devil came to her mind whenever she thought of her ex these days.

A second knock jerked her back from the preoccupation that total exhaustion allowed to creep up on her so easily and at the least likely moments.

She stood. Smoothed a hand over her skirt and walked as quietly as she could to the door. Pressing her eye to the peephole she resisted the urge to draw away in surprise or fear or possibly both as her brain registered the stranger standing on the other side of the door.

Male. Thirty or thirty-two maybe.

Tall, strong-looking.

Uneasiness coursed through her veins.

This had to be a mistake. He had to have stopped at the wrong room.

Should she say something? But then he’d know she was in here… alone. Why hadn’t she bought pepper spray months ago? Coming here like this—doing all she’d done over the past eight months—was more than enough reason to be concerned with protecting herself.

The trouble was she hadn’t been thinking about anyone except her son. Dumb, Willow. What good would she be to her son if she got herself killed?

“Ms. Harris?”

Willow took a big step back from the door.

How could this stranger know her name?

“Ms. Harris, my name is Spencer Anders. Jim Colby sent me to discuss your case.”

She allowed herself to breathe. Jim Colby. Okay. But why would he send someone to her motel? Had she even told Mr. Colby where she’d be staying?

For a moment she couldn’t think, then she remembered… Yes, she’d left word. She’d called the receptionist and provided the name and address of the motel where she could be reached. After her experience with the receptionist, Willow hadn’t been sure whether Mr. Colby would get the message or not. Evidently he had.

She stepped to the door once more. “Do you have identification?” She cleared her throat, annoyed at the tremble in her voice. New concerns immediately started to surface. Why wasn’t Mr. Colby handling her case himself? He was the one to insist he could get her son back. Was this his way of copping out? If his man failed would Colby be off the hook for making such a claim so hastily?

Willow closed her eyes and fought the vertigo of fear and confusion. She had to stop this. She had to focus.

She opened her eyes and watched through the tiny hole as the man who had identified himself as Spencer Anders reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a wallet. When he held a Louisiana driver’s license up for her to see she confirmed that his name was indeed Spencer Anders.

“Why do you have a Louisiana driver’s license?” Relevant or not she wanted to know. Louisiana was an awfully long way from Illinois. If he was a licensed P.I. in Illinois, wouldn’t he need to be a resident of this state? Too many questions that just didn’t matter. She was borrowing trouble and putting off the inevitable.

“I’m new to Chicago.” He slid the license back into his wallet, then tucked the wallet into his pocket once more. “Look, Ms. Harris, if you’re uncomfortable speaking to me in your room, I’ll wait for you in the coffee shop down the block.”

Maybe she should call Jim Colby and confirm that he’d sent this man.

“We’ve worked out the strategy for recovering your son,” Anders said, drawing her attention back to him. “If you’re still interested in hearing the details, I’ll be waiting in the coffee shop. Take a left at the motel entrance and you can’t miss it.”

… recovering your son…

Willow wrenched the door open when he started to walk away. “Wait.”

He hesitated a moment before turning to face her. A new trickle of trepidation slithered down her spine. Stop it, she ordered. This man was here to help her. Getting off on the wrong foot wouldn’t be productive.

He faced her and only then did she actually look at him closely enough to absorb the details. Dark hair, really dark. Gray eyes. Tired eyes. His expression wasn’t precisely grim, but the lines and angles of his face spoke of having seen more unpleasantness than any one human was built to take. Just like his employer.

His height, six-one at least, put her off just a little. At five-two, she found that almost everyone was taller than her. Perhaps it was the broad shoulders that went along with the towering height, coupled with the grim face that unsettled her just a little. No, she decided, it was the eyes. Somber. Weary. The eyes looked way older than the thirty-one or -two he appeared to be. And yet there was a keen alertness staring out at her from those solemn depths.

What she saw or didn’t see was of no consequence. He was here. He had a plan. That was the whole point… the only point.

“Come in.” She squared her shoulders and told herself to get past the hesitation. All this attempting to read between the lines was making her paranoid. She’d never met Davenport’s man, the one who’d probably lost his life while getting close to her son. For all she knew he might have been far more intimidating than this man.

Willow moved away from the door to allow Anders entrance. After coming inside he closed the door, but remained standing directly in front of it.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she opened the conversation. The next move was clearly hers. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Anders.” That was a mega understatement, but it would suffice. She could thank him properly when he’d gotten her son back.

“I have a few questions for you, Ms. Harris.” He reached into an interior pocket of his leather jacket. “The information you provided was helpful, but I need more details to round out our strategy.”

Jim Colby had asked her to make a list of the events that had led up to her decision to ask for a divorce from her husband, as well as anything she could think of related to him or his family that might be useful in the coming task. She’d spent an hour coming up with as many details as she could call to mind. Mr. Colby had obviously passed her list along to Mr. Anders.

Might as well get comfortable. If this went anything like her interviews with previous investigators, it would take some time.

“Please.” She indicated the chair next to the small table positioned in front of the window. “Sit.” She perched on the edge of the bed and tugged at the hem of her skirt to ensure it stayed close to her knees where it belonged. She cleared her mind of any static prompted by worry or anxiety as she clasped her hands in her lap and waited for him to begin. Listening carefully was essential in understanding the details.

As he took the seat she’d offered, she focused on the man in an effort to get a fix on him. First, she considered the way he dressed. The leather bomber jacket was brown and had the worn appearance of being a favorite. The blue jeans were equally faded and obviously a favored wardrobe selection as well. The black V-neck sweater he wore beneath the jacket was layered on top of a white T-shirt, both of which looked new. If she had to assess him solely on his overall appearance she would conclude that he was a nice man with a lot of painful history.

Willow abruptly wondered if he came to the same conclusion about her. Nice, with a heavy load of hurt slung around her neck like a millstone.

“Did you sign any kind of legal documents when you married Mr. al-Shimmari? A prenuptial agreement or other binding arrangement? Anything at all besides a marriage license?”

Willow regarded his question carefully before shaking her head. There had been essentially no paperwork involved. “Nothing. I know it sounds strange now, but we really were in love. Or, at least, I was. I had no money, other than my salary and a few small investments, and he didn’t appear worried that I would attempt to steal any of his.” She’d already been down this road with her attorney during the divorce proceedings. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing it, but she kept that to herself. She needed to give this man a chance.

“Did he or his family pressure you to convert to the ways of Islam?”

A frown tugged at her forehead, the tension somehow reaching all the way to the base of her skull. This was one she hadn’t been asked before. “No. Not really. It was suggested a couple of times, but he knew I wasn’t going to convert when we married. We talked about that. He didn’t have a problem with my decision.”

Spencer Anders leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Harris, do you know if your ex-husband was Sunni or Shia?”

She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Sunni.” His hands kept distracting her. They hung between his spread thighs, relaxed but infinitely dangerous-looking. A person’s hands said a lot about them. She’d always been fascinated by hands. She blinked, forced her eyes to meet his and her brain to get back on track. “Why?”

Those gray eyes searched hers as if he needed to be sure she didn’t already know the answer he was about to give her. What was it he thought he knew that she didn’t? Apprehension started its dreaded rise once more.

“According to the laws of his country and his religion, he could marry you without consequence. He could have children with you and retain full custody in the event you divorced—under one condition.”

She’d learned about that law the hard way. Her attorney hadn’t been able to find any exceptions or conditions. “What condition?” If what he was about to tell her impacted his ability to help her get her son back… maybe she didn’t want to know.

“That you didn’t convert. A non-Muslim woman cannot be granted custody of any child, girl or boy, when divorcing a Muslim man. You didn’t need a pre-nup because as a non-Muslim you weren’t entitled to any property or money. That’s the law, Ms. Harris. You never had a leg to stand on.”

He was right. This part was definitely no surprise to her. “I found that out too late.” She should have been smarter. But she’d been in love. The idea that Khaled had urged her to retain her own beliefs for underhanded purposes sent fury roaring through her even now. He’d insisted that he was perfectly happy without her bothering with conversion. She’d considered his understanding an act of love and trust. Lies. All of it. His assurances had all been for one thing alone—to guarantee he couldn’t lose any children they might have.

There was just one thing about the way the marriage ended that didn’t sit right with that scenario. Her attorney hadn’t been able to give her an answer to that question. “Since the law protected his right to custody, why ship me out of the country so secretively?” He’d kidnapped her off the street and sent her to L.A. with two of his goons. They’d left her there, with no money and no ID. It had been a nightmare. Why had he bothered? Was the act meant to humiliate her? To frighten her? That he’d later denied it only added insult to injury.

“To justify his claims of desertion,” Anders offered as if that answer should be crystal-clear. “Though you had no right to custody, you could have challenged the divorce as long as he had no legal grounds against you. Dumping you back on American soil made you look like the bad guy and gave him exactly what he needed—legal grounds to support his accusations and sympathy.”

Anders was right. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She’d been duped from the beginning, but this last was the ultimate betrayal. He’d charmed and seduced her, then tied her hands with sweet words of understanding.

How stupid and blind she’d been.

“So what do we do?” She appreciated that he had been able to clear up that question when her attorney hadn’t been able to, but she needed more. She needed this man to lay out a plan that would ensure her son’s safe return to her.

The sooner the better.

For one long beat she held her breath. Whether it was the cool distance she saw in his eyes or the apprehension compounding inside her, overriding her momentary burst of anger, she was afraid to breathe. She needed him to say he could make this happen.

“I have more questions related to your ex-husband’s family and living arrangements as well as his financial dealings. It’s essential that I have as much information as you can give me before walking into this situation. Information is power, Ms. Harris. The more I have, the better prepared I am to accomplish my mission.”

“You’ll be going to Kuwait, not Mr. Colby?” That she sounded disappointed was not lost on him. She hoped that wouldn’t prove a strike against her, but she was a little disappointed. Jim Colby had been so sure he could get her son back. Was this man capable of the same promise?

“I’ll be handling your case,” Anders verified. To his credit he kept any resentment at her question out of his voice as well as his expression.

She’d let her feelings be known, no point beating around the bush about her bottom line. “Can you make the same guarantee Mr. Colby made?” She needed his reassurance. More than he could possibly fathom. This was far too important for her to be dancing around the issue.

Spencer wasn’t sure he should answer this woman’s question the way he would prefer. Jim Colby had put him in an awkward position. Yes, Spencer was relatively certain he could make this happen. He’d spent a decade in covert operations and a good deal of that time in the Middle East. He knew how to get in, accomplish his mission and get out. Not a problem.

But this wasn’t as cut-and-dried as a military operation. And it damned sure wasn’t black or white.

This was a child. A small boy, whose life and future hung in the balance.

As good as Spencer was, and he was very good at his job, stuff happened. A stray gunshot, unexpected extra manpower in a standoff—way more variables than he had time to contemplate could come into play. It wasn’t as simple as going in, nabbing the child and getting out.

Khaled al-Shimmari wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill Middle-Eastern rich guy. The man had connections, major connections. His family was extremely powerful, more so, Spencer felt certain, than this lady suspected. He didn’t see any reason to go into that with her just now.

There was one glaring detail in particular he planned to keep to himself for the moment: the fact that her ex was suspected of supporting terrorism. Spencer had logged into certain FBI files with the help of the new receptionist Jim had hired. She might not have much personality, but she could hack into anything. That skill could be very useful and at the same time extremely dangerous. But that was Colby’s problem, not Spencer’s.

Willow Harris stared at him expectantly. She wanted an answer to her question. Yes or no. He understood what she was looking for.

“I can tell you that I have extensive experience in the Middle East. I’m former military and my unit specialized in hostage retrieval. I have a perfect record, no failures whatsoever.” He hoped that answered her question without actually answering it. Being evasive wasn’t his intent, but he couldn’t make her the promise she wanted. Not in good faith anyway. Colby had put him in a hell of a position. Spencer wondered if his new employer really had that much confidence in him or if he was simply that desperate for business.

With her hands wrung together in her lap, she bit her bottom lip and analyzed his response for a moment. He took advantage of that time to do a little analyzing of his own. She was young. Twenty-eight according to his research. She had a degree in marketing with an emphasis on foreign trading. She’d been recruited right out of college with a firm that catered to Middle-Eastern investors.

Willow Harris had no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. She’d graduated college with honors and appeared to be very conservative in behavior and dress. Her navy skirt went all the way to her knees. The white button-up blouse was buttoned all the way up. Silky blond hair fell around her shoulders. She was pretty and clearly too naive for her own good. Those big green eyes watched him now as if he were the only man on earth who could save her from a fate worse than death.

Poor kid. That bastard al-Shimmari had taken total advantage of her. Spencer had a bad feeling about just who al-Shimmari really was. The fact that he was on the FBI watch list might very well be only the tip of the iceberg.

He had his doubts as to whether this case was as straightforward as it appeared from a distance.

She inhaled a big breath, unintentionally drawing his attention to her lips. Nice lips. Soft, full. Spencer snapped his gaze to hers and gave himself a swift mental kick for being an idiot.

“Your military history is impressive, Mr. Anders.” She licked those distracting lips and seemed to struggle with her next words. “Can you… will you tell me why you’re no longer in the military? I mean, you look too young to be retired and I… well, I was wondering why a man like you would walk away from such an impressive career.”

Not as naive as he’d presumed, apparently. He considered lying to her. He was relatively certain she wouldn’t want to hear the truth. But she’d been lied to enough already. Six P.I.s in as many months. Nope. This lady deserved the whole truth.

“My superior officer accused me of being a traitor.”

Her pupils flared with surprise.

No turning back now. “He claimed that I sold information about an operation to the enemy. Since he couldn’t prove it, I wasn’t court-martialed to the degree he’d hoped. There were, however, other lesser charges backed up by supposed eye witnesses. In the end I was charged with insubordination and behavior unbecoming an officer. I was demoted and given the opportunity to start over. I opted not to.”

That was the condensed version. It was also all she would get from him.

Even those few sentences had bitterness and fury churning in his gut.

She blinked rapidly, concealing her initial reaction. “Oh.”

He knew better than to expect her to be anything other than shocked or appalled, maybe both. And yet he expected more somehow. He was sick and tired of people judging him wrongly for getting screwed by a ranking officer. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

But she couldn’t know that.

She would only understand one thing: her newest hope for getting her son back had been labeled a possible traitor to his country by the United States Army. That had to be a little scary.

“Well.” She cleared her throat delicately and sat up a little straighter, but didn’t look directly at him. “Were you…? A traitor… I mean?”

The anger and bitterness rushed out of him in a choked laugh. He had to hand it to the lady, she was original. Instead of ending the meeting and ushering him out, she flat-out asked what was on her mind.

“No. I wasn’t a traitor. I just got on the bad side of the wrong jerk, the man who happened to be my commanding officer. He used me as a scapegoat when he couldn’t find the real traitor.” Spencer had always wondered if his superior had been the real traitor… if the whole setup had been about some sort of vengeance since Spencer had outshone him numerous times. He supposed he would never know.

Willow Harris’s expression brightened as she let out an audible sigh. “Good. Now that we have that out of the way, when do we leave?”

“We?” Dread kicked into high gear. This was not a tactic he’d anticipated. Jim Colby certainly hadn’t mentioned her desire to be involved with the operation.

She folded her arms over her chest and set her chin to a challenging tilt. “I’ve decided that this time I want to be involved. Ata is my child. Maybe that was my mistake all along. I should be a part of the operation.”

No way that would work. “I’m afraid your presence would only complicate matters, Ms. Harris. You don’t have the proper training—”

“This is not negotiable, Mr. Anders.” She stared straight into his eyes, hers stone-cold determined. “I will be right there beside you every step of the way, otherwise I’ll have to take my business elsewhere.”

The last gave Spencer pause. Jim Colby would not be pleased if he screwed this up. He had accepted this case, and he wanted it done. ASAP. He damn sure couldn’t expect to stay in business by turning clients away. This job was Spencer’s chance to really start over. To build a new life with an employer who seemed to trust him implicitly.

If he tossed away this opportunity… would another one that offered the same come his way?

Not likely.

His hands shook. He could sure use a drink right about now. But that wouldn’t solve the problem. Jim Colby was counting on him. Spencer was counting on himself.

And this lady—his full attention settled on Willow Harris—was counting on him. She wanted her child back. She deserved her child back.

Spencer pushed aside all the reasons he would be out of his mind to move forward under these terms. “You understand, Ms. Harris, that this mission will be dangerous?” He wanted all the cards on the table. No misconceptions or misunderstandings. “Your presence could actually jeopardize my ability to react as swiftly as I may need to, in effect jeopardizing the whole operation.”

The delicate muscles of her long slender throat worked hard as she summoned a response. “I understand the danger. I’m fully prepared to take the risk.”

Was she? he wondered. She’d lived in Kuwait for three years or a little better. Did she really comprehend how bad it could be without the support and approval of her ex-husband? He doubted it.

“Just one more question.” This one would be the deal-breaker.

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.”