Escape to Morning (7 page)

“No. We know Hayata's up to something, and the feeling around here is that they'll make a move … soon. Sit tight. Keep things business as usual. Go to work tomorrow. Put your ear to the ground. Talk to that girl—Sally—and find out who's been across the border lately. We'll wait until we hear from our other Hayata-embedded operatives.”

Will said nothing, afraid that anger might lace his tone. Sit tight? Yeah, right. Perhaps, if he was real lucky, Hayata would make his death quick and painless instead of the boot beating he'd gotten the first time around.

“Simon hinted that they were planning something. He sent me a text message before he died,” Will said. “One word—
amina
.”

“
Amina
. What is that?”

“It sounds like an Arabic word. Or maybe Turkish. I think I remember that from when I was stationed at Incirlik. Except what does it have to do with Simon?”

He could picture Jeff rubbing his temples, where his wispy brown hair was starting to recede. “I'll get analysis on it.”

“Thanks, Jeff.” Will clicked off and closed the cell phone, fighting the residue of frustration.

Lake Superior waves threw themselves onshore, the tail end of fury after today's rainstorm. Lights from Moose Bend twinkled against the pane of night, and the redolence of spring ladened the air. Will breathed deeply, suddenly missing the smell of prairie grass, the low of cattle as they roamed wide fields. How many times had he sprawled under the sky with Lew, hands behind their heads, dreaming of their futures? Lew's always included Bonnie, and Will had painfully endured many soliloquies of love and longing from his best friend.

Lew had things that Will envied.
Still
envied. Honesty. A relationship with a woman that went beyond expectations. Bonnie had believed in Lew, had let him free to serve his country, knowing that Lew's heart stayed at home. Bonnie's love had given Lew a strength that Will couldn't understand. Or maybe that strength came from something more.

Will put his hand to his chest, as if pushing away the burn inside. Memories of Lew always seemed to stir up longings and attune Will to the vacancies in his own life. He knew he'd made choices that left him empty, with regret pinging in his heart. But he'd given his life over to God a few years back, and somehow he thought that would change everything. That God might smile on him like He had smiled on Lew Strong.

Obviously God's smile on his life was too much to ask for a guy like him. At least, Will never felt like he deserved that smile. He wasn't a man like Lew and never would be.

He considered that his inability to latch on to a real relationship might be in his genes. Will Masterson hadn't exactly had a firm foundation in the area of family and commitment. Buck Masterson's idea of family night was taking Will out to the nearest field, shooting back a bottle of whiskey, and instructing his son on the finer points of target practice. Sloppy drunk, the man could hit a prairie dog at a full run from one hundred yards.

He had even better aim when it came to finding his son with his fists.

Will exhaled, blinking away the past, the rush of pain. No, he hadn't learned to love from his father. Rose Masterson, however, had lived on love. She loved music, nature, the earth, and every man in town freely. Will learned to ignore the jabs and instead focus on the truth. His mother had loved him, and when she decided to come home, she made cookies, drew pictures, and showed him what a hug felt like. As a child he blamed his father for his mother's absences. As a teenager, he had a taste of love and betrayal, and for the first time he saw Buck with sympathy.

The Green Berets taught Will that he was responsible for his own behavior, regardless of the circumstances.

God had helped him forgive the past. Still, scars ran deep and the thought of cracking open his heart for anyone to take a good peek had kept him moving, dodging, never speculating on a second date.

Until tonight. Something about the way Dani Lundeen had teased him—no agendas, no coy innuendos, just pure friendship felt … exhilarating. Sweet. Like freshwater over parched soil. For a moment he let himself wonder what it would be like to rub all that dirt off her cheek with his thumb, to see the smile in her eyes when he kissed her.

Okay, at any time, common sense could start waving flags and wake him up. Sanity, which had obviously decided to take a vacation, would say, let her go. Keep your distance. He had no business cultivating anything with Dani or any other woman that he couldn't follow through on. And that follow-through would be done God's way. Which meant no visions of kissing, no thoughts of running his hands through her unruly hair.

Only why had Dani fled as if he might be an ax murderer instead of the local scribe? Then again, he wasn't the local scribe. Not only that, but he'd lied to her, not once but twice: first by letting her think he might be a cop and second by maintaining his cover. One that freaked her out more, perhaps, than if he'd told her the truth. Which, of course, he couldn't do and keep his real job in national security.

The hard facts only made him feel as if he'd bathed in a fine layer of sand. Gritty. In his eyes, mouth, under his fingernails. Grinding against his heart.

He sighed, suddenly painfully aware that if he spent any time with Dani Lundeen, those mysterious hazel eyes would tug at all his vulnerabilities. He might be saved and sanctified, but he was 100 percent male and had experiences lurking in his heart that grappled with his desires to be God's man. Even if he wasn't quite sure what that looked like, he knew it wouldn't resemble anything like his old SOP. He'd do well to put Miss Dannette I-Hate-Reporters Lundeen out of his mind and focus on finding the package he'd been sent to Moose Bend to unearth.

Amina
.

Will wiped his hands on his pants, pocketed his cell phone, and headed toward the house. Despite the way his mission rubbed his conscience raw, he had to complete it. Jeff 's words rang in his head:
Sit tight
. Oh yeah, sure. And what?

Wait for Hayata to learn his habits, maybe pick him off with a Russian-made Dragunov sniper rifle while he was exiting the Java Moose, holding his early morning latte? Hardly. There was a reason they'd hired him out of Special Forces.

He rushed inside the cabin and pulled a duffel bag out of the closet.

If Hayata had a package waiting, it was time for the postman to pay a visit.

Chapter 5

FADIMA'S GROOM WAS six foot two with midnight black eyes, two silver teeth, and a smile that looked more jackal than human. Bakym circled Fadima like she might be prey, his eyes roaming over her as he listened to the report from her two captors.

Fadima clutched her backpack to her chest. A buzz, produced by twenty hours with little sleep, simmered beneath her skin, and she blinked, trying to get a fix on her surroundings in the dim moonlight. They'd driven through the Canadian border control without so much as a raised eyebrow, something she attributed to both her American looks and her driver's suddenly smooth smile and accentless speech.

Beyond the border, America turned shaggy and menacing, the forest looming dark and shadows jutting across the highway as they drove in silence. She wasn't sure what she'd expected. Perhaps bright lights, a McDonald's, or even a grocery store. She had spent many sleepless nights conjuring up what it would feel like to live free, without having Hayata count her steps or hover as she visited the market. For her own good, they'd said. She was practically royalty.

A royal sheep intended for slaughter.

They'd finally cut off a road twenty kilometers or so south of the border and driven through the woods on a rutted dirt road until they emerged by a weedy yard ringing a small unlit house. Fadima hadn't needed prodding to get out of the vehicle—she nearly gulped in the fresh air, despite her dread. Maybe here her protector, Hafiz, would find her. The air, scented with an unfamiliar crispness, lifted her hair and buoyed her spirit as she trekked to the house. The door squealed when she entered, raising gooseflesh, as if in warning tendered by watchful spirits.

Inside the house, the smells of cigarette smoke, grease, and mold obliterated the hope churned up by the breeze. The floor squeaked as a man appeared from what looked like a hallway. He stood in the middle of the room, flanked by two fraying, broken sofas, and gestured for her to approach.

Fadima collected the last fragments of courage and obeyed, recognizing Bakym from the photograph her father had showed her. Only this Bakym didn't smile, and he emanated the odors of sweat and vodka that made her blood curdle. She stood, then, her heart thudding through her chest, as Bakym surveyed his newest operator, his bride-to-be, the daughter of General Erkan Nazar.

“Welcome to Camp Azmi,” said Bakym finally, but his tone hinted at disgust. “I will inform your father that you have arrived.” He had a tight, low voice, and he stopped before her, his feet planted, his hands clasped behind him. He wore black jeans and a gray sweatshirt that did nothing to hide the outline of his arms, his chest. She'd heard of his physical exploits, namely his ability at hand-to-hand combat against the Russians, and knew that he could snap her neck without blinking. In the pale moonlight, his dark eyes sorted out her vulnerabilities, and her throat dried up.

Bakym smiled, glanced at his cohorts. “We have two rules.” He held up his fingers, as if she might need a visual reminder. “Number one, I am the
Kaya
. You do as I say. You may be a princess in Tazar, but here you will obey me as your king. Especially after we are married.” He chuckled then, and it felt like a dagger to her chest. “Number two, if you forget rule number one, you will be executed.”

She opened her mouth but caught the outtake of breath before it left her lips. She nodded.

Bakym reached out and cupped her face in his hand. It was cold and large, and she closed her mouth and tried not to flinch.

“I have waited for you, princess,” he said, and there was nothing soft about his voice. He moved his hand around to the back of her neck, tightened his grip. He took a step closer, forced her eyes to his.

Amina
. She spoke the word in her head as he stared down at her, ice in his gaze.

“Your father made a wise choice for you.” Then he kissed her hard, with anger and power in his touch.

She stiffened, closed her eyes.
For you, Father
.

Bakym stepped back, released her, wiped his mouth.

Her lips throbbed, bruised from his touch. Bile pooled in the back of her throat.

He looked at the two men standing in the shadows. “Hafiz is dead. We caught him today sending a message to someone on a cell phone.” Bakym raised one dark eyebrow, glanced at Fadima. “Odd, don't you think, that the very day our little present arrives, we'd find a traitor in our midst?” He ran the backs of his fingers over her cheek. She tried not to shudder as she read meaning in his eyes.

“Don't disappoint me, Fadima,” he said softly. “We have much to accomplish for Hayata, and you're just in time for your first lesson.” He leaned close, his breath on her face. “Come with me, my new bride.”

Fadima felt a hand on her arm, felt her legs move, but her brain had frozen on
“Hafiz is dead.”

Dead
. Fear welled in her throat, tasting acrid, and she fought tears.
Amina
. Only her protector was dead. So much for truth, for freedom. She gulped in quick, calming breaths, then blinked back tears as Bakym yanked her down the hall, opened the door to a room.

Her heart stopped, a heavy stone in her chest when he shoved her inside and followed her, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

But her father had said—

Fadima nearly crumpled in relief as two women sat up, eyes on the newest member of their group.

Bakym pointed to a mat next to the wall. A blanket lay bunched on the top. Fadima climbed onto it and watched as Bakym walked over to one of the women, grabbed her by the arm, and forced her to her feet. Dark hair tumbled down over her face, but it couldn't hide the fear in her eyes. She whimpered as Bakym pushed her out of the room.

The other woman said nothing as she turned back to the wall. But Fadima heard quiet sobs punctuate the darkness.

What kind of nightmare had she entered?
Father, I can't do this
. Fadima pulled the blanket up over her, her head on her backpack, her eyes to the wall. She missed the smell of the campfire, of lamb's meat cooking, the arid breeze on her face, even the barks of the village dogs as they roamed the night streets. She missed the sound of Emine's breathing on the other side of the room. Emine had been her nanny, her mother, after Saiba had left … or rather, been executed, as Fadima had discovered later.

Most of all, she missed her father. His gentle smiles, the way he enfolded her in his massive arms. He said he trusted these Americans, these people whom, outwardly, he pledged to destroy. He told her to trust his plan, but what had her father been thinking to send her here to this … this … She couldn't think of a word to describe Bakym, the cruelty in his eyes, the taste of pain he left on her mouth.

She knew just what kind of horrific lesson he had planned for America. But for her … ?

Father, I can't do this.

She feigned sleep, but her mind told her that she had only one option.

Run.