Egan Cassidy's Kid

by Beverly Barton

  “Good. I figured you were too smart to screw up like that. As long as you keep using your brains and following orders, Bent stays alive. Screw with me and he’s dead!”

  Egan heard the snap of Cullen’s fingers. His own heartbeat thumped an erratic rat-a-tat-tat, the sound humming in his ears.

  “Your game, your rules,” Egan said. He rubbed Maggie’s back, trying to soothe her, but at his touch she tensed even more.

  “Got that damn straight.”

  “What do I have to do?” Egan asked.

  “All you have to do is come get your son. You want to see him, don’t you? Flesh of your flesh. Bone of your bone. The fruit of your loins.”

  “Yeah, sure, I want to see him.”

  “Then why don’t you and Maggie hop a plane and come on out to Arizona for a visit. It’d be nice if you could get here within forty-eight hours. That way the boy would still be alive when you get here.”

  “Forty-eight hours. I think that can be arranged.”

  Maggie glared at Egan and he understood she wanted to speak, wanted to ask questions, but wisely remained silent.

  “Won’t be as easy as you think, buddy boy,” Cullen told him. “My place is rather secluded. Can’t get here except on foot. Of course, I’ve got my own helicopter pad, but I don’t want you flying in. You might bring company with you and we wouldn’t want extra visitors showing up, now would we? If that were to happen, I’d have to execute your son immediately.”

  “I understand. So, where exactly are you located?”

  “Fly into Flagstaff, then take Highway 40 southeast. When you come to a town called Minerva, go to Schmissrauter’s Garage and ask for directions to the general’s fort. You can take a Jeep part of the way in, then you’ll have to switch to horseback. But I want you and Maggie to walk in, so leave your horses.”

  Instantly Egan began calculating the scenario, trying to figure out the best plan of action. But any way you looked at it, the chances of rescuing Bent and his getting Maggie and himself out alive were—with the aid of the Dundee agents—fifty-fifty. If he discounted himself, then the odds rose to maybe sixty-forty in their favor.

  “Anything else I should know?” Egan asked.

  “That’s about it…except…I’m looking forward to meeting your son’s mother. Figure I’ll enjoy getting to know her and I’ll make sure she enjoys getting to know me.”

  Egan clenched his teeth together. Even knowing what Cullen was doing, why he was taunting him with images of Maggie being raped, it took every ounce of Egan’s willpower to keep from telling the slimy bastard to go straight to hell. At that precise moment, he knew that if he ever got his hands on Cullen, he would kill him.

  The dial tone hummed in Egan’s ear. He replaced the receiver, then turned and pulled Maggie into his embrace. No one was going to hurt this woman more than she’d already been hurt. If he had to move heaven and earth to protect her and their son, then that’s what he’d do. If it meant dying to save them, then he would gladly lay down his life.

  Do you hear me, God? Are you listening? Do we have a bargain? My life for Maggie’s life and Bent’s?

  Maybe he’d better improve the odds, he thought. More than likely his soul was going to burn in hell anyway, so maybe he should be making his bargain with Lucifer instead of the Almighty.

  You want my soul, Old Scratch? I’m willing to make a bargain with you, too, if that’s what it takes to save Maggie and Bent.

  “Egan?” Maggie’s voice rasped with emotion.

  He looked down into her eyes, into those beautiful, warm brown eyes and his only thought was how dear and good and loving Maggie was.

  His lips took hers in a breath-robbing kiss as his arms tightened around her. Equal parts of frustration and desire dictated the intensity of the kiss. As if her body had never forgotten the feel of his, Maggie responded. Her breasts pressed against his chest as she fitted herself snugly to him. When she opened her mouth to him, he accepted the invitation.

  Egan kissed her until they were both breathless, then he laid his forehead against hers and whispered into her mouth, “I care, Maggie. I did then and I do now.”

  Turning her head so that she couldn’t see the expression in his eyes, she hunched her shoulders and slid out of his embrace. “What about Bent? My son is the only thing that matters to me. I don’t care about you or me or how either of us feels about the other.”

  How could he blame her for the way she felt? She was a mother whose only child had been kidnapped by a psychotic son of a bitch who had every intention of killing the boy.

  “I know where our son is,” he told her. “And you and I are going to get him and bring him home.”

  Bent understood things a lot better now. Now that he knew when the man in charge said “your father,” he wasn’t talking about Gil Douglas. He was referring to Egan Cassidy, who was nothing more to Bent than a name on his birth certificate.

  His being kidnapped was connected to some sort of grudge this man had against Egan Cassidy. Bent realized that he was simply a pawn in a game between two mercenaries. A prize to be won. Or lost.

  While two burly guards flanked him on either side, Bent studied his abductor. Six feet. Maybe six-one. Somewhere in his early to mid-fifties and in great physical shape for an old guy. There was definitely a crazy look in his blue eyes, as if he were spaced out on speed. He laughed too much. And a nervous twitch pinched his left cheek and blinked his left eye from time to time.

  He wore army fatigues and his men called him General. His grayish-brown hair had been cropped short like a GI from an old fifties movie. And he strutted around as if he were king of the world.

  The general looked directly at Bent, then pointed his index finger at him. Bent swallowed hard. Show no fear, he told himself. Show no fear. But how the hell did he do that when he was so scared he was about to wet in his pants?

  “Your old man’s on his way here.”

  “I guess you’re talking about Egan Cassidy, aren’t you?” Bent asked.

  “Yeah. So you know who your father is? What did your mother tell you about my old buddy, Cassidy?”

  “Nothing,” Bent said. “Just that he fought in Nam with my uncle Bentley and that he became a mercenary after the war.”

  “Then you don’t know that your old man is one of the toughest sons of a bitch that ever lived. His own life never meant spit to him, so just killing him was never an option.” The general approached Bent, a sick smile on his face. “I’ve waited over twenty-five years to find his Achilles’ heel.” The general jabbed his finger into Bent’s chest. “And here you are, the answer to my prayers—Egan Cassidy’s kid, all mine to do with what I will.”

  Bent lunged at the general, but before he could touch him, the two guards grabbed Bent and jerked him back away from their leader.

  “If Egan Cassidy is the hard-ass you say he is, he’ll storm this place and kick your butt!” Bent shouted.

  The general laughed long and hard and loud. Then as his laughter died down, he clamped one large, hard hand over Bent’s shoulder and looked him square in the eye.

  “You’re just like your old man. God, would he be proud of you.”

  Joe Ornelas answered the phone on the third ring. “Yeah, Ornelas here.”

  “Joe, this is Egan Cassidy. Has Ellen been in touch with you?”

  “She called me about an hour ago. Hey, man, I’m really sorry about your kid.”

  “Thanks,” Egan said. “Ellen is using the Dundee jet so we can be in Arizona as quickly as possible. Cullen’s given us a forty-eight-hour deadline and the clock is ticking.”

  “I’m already packed,” Joe told him. “Ellen and I figured you’d need somebody familiar with the lay of the land, who just happened to be a pretty good tracker.”

  “She explained to you why you can’t go all the way in with Maggie and me, didn’t she?”

  “Sure did. All I’ll do is get you there, then I’ll join forces with our guys who’ll be coming in by helicopter, within
a few miles of Cullen’s fort,” Joe said. “Ellen put together Whitelaw, O’Brien, Parker and Wolfe for this operation.”

  “Counting you, that’s only five men. I asked for six.”

  “You’ll have six. Ellen’s taking this one on personally.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Cassidy had never known a woman quite like Ellen Denby. She was equal parts femme fatale and highly trained commando. Every man who worked for Dundee liked and respected the CEO of the agency.

  Although she was everybody’s buddy in a social setting, she kept her private life strictly private. And if there was a man in her life, she kept him private, too.

  “We’ll all be aboard the jet when we pick up you and Ms. Douglas. We can work out our plan of attack and rescue on the way to Flagstaff. Ellen’s already pulled in a few favors and gotten maps that pinpoint Cullen’s fort, so we won’t have to wait for directions in Minerva.”

  “I take it that somebody’s been keeping tabs on Cullen,” Egan said. “I assume Ellen didn’t give away any secrets in order to acquire info.”

  “Nobody’s going to get in our way,” Joe assured him. “This is going to be our party, even though the feds have been invited along.”

  “If one thing goes wrong—”

  “We’ll get your kid out alive.”

  “Joe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t factor into this rescue operation. Our only objective is to get Maggie and Bent to safety. You got that?”

  “Yeah, sure. If it comes down to it, you’re expendable.”

  “Make sure the others understand.”

  “Yeah. I will.”

  Maggie dug into the back of her closet, searching for a pair of old jeans that she used when she worked in the yard. Egan had told her she’d need an outfit to wear on the plane trip to Flagstaff and the Jeep ride to Minerva. Something comfortable and practical. Then she’d need jeans, shirt and jacket to change into for the horseback ride and final trek to Grant Cullen’s hideaway.

  “The last thing I want to do is take you with me,” Egan had told her. “But your being with me is one of Cullen’s demands. And for now, we have no choice but to play this game by his rules. Do you understand?”

  She’d nodded her head and said yes, that she understood. She understood more than Egan realized. The two of them would walk into the lion’s den alone and be taken captive by the man who was holding Bent. Their lives would depend on six Dundee agents who would storm the fort and, God willing, save them. Egan hadn’t told her what their odds were, but she could guess. He hadn’t explained any details or implied that there was even the remotest possibility that he and she and their son could all die, but she knew.

  “Got any old boots?” Egan asked.

  Gasping, Maggie jumped at the sound of his voice. She had left him downstairs to make a phone call ten minutes ago and his unexpected appearance in her bedroom unnerved her. It had been fifteen years since Egan had been in this room, but she could remember, as if it were yesterday, the long nights and sweet mornings they had shared in her bed.

  Nothing in this room was the same, not even the bed. When she married Gil, she had redecorated before he had moved in with her and Bent. And then she’d redecorated again after her divorce. The bed she had shared with Egan was now stored in the attic.

  “Boots?” she asked.

  “Where we’re heading we’re going to run into some pretty rough territory. And in the mountains, it’ll be cold at night. I want you to wear some heavy socks and some sturdy boots. If you don’t have any, we’ll have to find you some.”

  “I have hiking boots,” she told him. “Bent and I go to the Smoky Mountains at least once a year to hike the trails. Twice a year, some years. We’ve done that ever since he was five. Of course, back then we took easy trails and I made it more of an adventure than a real hike.”

  At the thought that Bent and she might never hike together again, might never share another Smoky Mountain vacation, Maggie’s stomach twisted into knots. Her gaze locked with Egan’s and she realized he could read her thoughts. But what was he thinking? she wondered. About all the years he had missed with his son? Or that now he was aware of the fact he had a child, he might never get the chance to know him?

  “Good,” Egan said. “A pair of boots that have already been broken in will be a lot better for your feet.”

  “I’m almost finished packing.” Maggie diverted her attention from the man in her bedroom to a search through her closet. “I’ll have to dig the boots out. They’re in the back here somewhere.” She dove into the walk-in closet, down on her knees, scrambling around, searching through the boxes stored there.

  Egan tried not to look at her, did his level best not to notice how curvaceous her hips were or how long her legs were. At thirty-eight, Maggie was a gorgeous woman. In some ways more beautiful than she’d been at twenty-three. Just the sight of her excited him, aroused him. And now, more than then, something about her brought out all his possessive, protective instincts. The primitive man within him recognized her as his mate—his woman.

  He had known his share of women, but no one had ever touched his soul. Only Maggie. He supposed that was one of the reasons he had run from her fifteen years ago. Why he had cut their affair short. Because he’d known that he wanted more from her than a brief, no-strings-attached relationship. He could never have had what he’d wanted most—a lifetime with Maggie. He had walked away before it had been too late—before Cullen had learned about their relationship. He had thought that by leaving her, he was protecting her.

  Why the hell hadn’t he been honest with her back then? Why hadn’t he told her about Cullen? If she had known the danger existed, she would have come to him when she’d found out she was carrying his child.

  “Here they are.” Maggie emerged from the closet, a pair of scuffed, well-worn boots held high, as if they were a prize catch. After tossing them into her unzipped overnight bag, she lifted her underwear and socks off the bed where she had laid them out and then stuffed them into a large side pocket.

  “We’re going to fly into Flagstaff on the Dundee jet,” Egan said. “Six agents will be going with us, but only one—Joe Ornelas, a former Navajo policeman—will be making the trip to the fort with us.”

  “Aren’t you concerned that Grant Cullen will somehow learn about your plans to storm his fortress? Shouldn’t we be more worried about secrecy?”

  “Cullen will be expecting an attack,” Egan told her. “There’s not a chance in hell that we’ll take him by surprise.”

  “I thought he told you that we had to come alone, that we couldn’t involve anyone else.”

  “He did.”

  “Then I don’t understand—”

  “Just trust me, Maggie. Believe that I know what I’m doing.”

  “I’m trusting you with the most precious thing in the world to me. My son’s life.”

  “Our son,” Egan corrected. “I might have only known about Bent’s existence for less than twenty-four hours, but that doesn’t make him any less my son.”

  Maggie nodded agreement, but quickly whirled around and began searching inside her closet again. Egan wandered around the large, airy bedroom. A row of three tall windows, curtains drawn back, lined the back wall and overlooked the side yard. Early-morning sunlight slipped into the room and lightened the soft pink walls to a pale blush. A beige cotton throw hung over the arm of a floral-upholstered settee at the foot of the bed. This had been the room he had shared with Maggie, but that wasn’t the bed. If not for the distinct architecture of the room itself, he wouldn’t have recognized it. She had changed everything, including the furniture.

  As Egan sauntered past a writing desk in front of the windows, he noticed several volumes held upright by fleur-de-lis brass bookends. Curious as to why these particular books warranted a special place atop her desk, in her bedroom, Egan removed one thin volume. For a split second his heart stopped.

  I Remember. By Nage Styon.


  One by one he removed, examined and then returned to its place each of the six volumes of poetry. Memories. Cries from the heart. The soul’s torment. A vein opened and words were written in the author’s blood.

  He was the class of sixty-three

  full of hopes, dreams, and ideas for his future

  but returned with death, nightmares, horrors,

  the blood of friends on his hands,

  the smell of rot encrusted in his memory,

  something in the jungle stalking his soul…

  Did Maggie have any idea who the author was? Egan wondered. Or had she purchased these specific books and kept them close to her because they helped her understand her brother and the hell he had lived through in a faraway country when he’d been not much more than a boy and she only a small child? When a publisher had bought Egan’s first volume of poetry, he had insisted on using a pseudonym. Had Maggie deciphered the thinly veiled transposition of letters that formed the name Egan Tyson? Although he wrote the poetry, he believed that the sentiments expressed came from Bentley’s soul as well as his own, so he used both his name and his deceased friend’s name.

  “Have you ever read Nage Styon?” Maggie asked.

  Egan almost dropped the book he held, but managed to clutch it to his chest. “Yes, I’ve read all these volumes. I see you have everything he’s written.”

  “I ordered his first book twelve years ago, when it was first published and I’ve been a devoted fan ever since.” Maggie folded her faded jeans and laid them alongside her boots inside the vinyl overnight bag. “Whenever I read his poetry, I cry,” she admitted. “I think about Bentley. And I think about you.” She took a deep breath. “And all the other young men who had their lives forever changed by that war.”

  “All those young men, those who are still alive, are all old men now,” Egan said, unable to discern whether or not Maggie knew the truth about the author. “Most of them are older than I am and not a one of them has ever forgotten. Grant Cullen sure never forgot what happened in that POW camp.”