Point of No Return (13 page)

Chet started the bike as Mae slid her hands around his waist. They left Laura staring after them.

Now he understood Laura's sadness—there could be no happy ending for this fairy tale. A sick feeling of dread coiled in his gut as he drove back to Burmansk.

He kept his eyes peeled for Josh, the coil tightening into a fist by the time they reached the mission. No Josh.

But something had happened. Chet slowed the bike.

Joyce crouched in front of debris before her sprawled husband, his head in her lap, blood oozing between her fingers as she pressed her hand against his forehead.

In the distance a siren whined.

Chet didn't even turn off the bike. He just launched off it and ran to Joyce. Her husband's eyes had rolled back into his head.

“What happened?” He hunkered down next to her.

Someone shoved a wad of cloth into his grip. He moved Joyce's hand away, pressing the cloth against Phil's open wound. He recognized the work of the blunt end of a Kalashnikov.

“Is this Bashim's doing?”

“He came back for Josh, and Phil—” Joyce pressed her hand against her mouth “—Bashim hit him so hard, he just dropped. Not even a sound.”

He'd guessed right. Bashim rarely used his fists—he preferred harder objects.

This was not how it was supposed to play out. He was the one Akif really wanted.

“What happened to Josh?” Mae stood over them, her voice just over a whisper. “Did he take him?”

Joyce nodded. “I'm so sorry.”

Mae put her hand on Joyce's shoulder and knelt behind her.

Chet put his ear close to the man's mouth. He heard air traveling without constriction. “His airway seems okay. Bashim only hit him once?”

Joyce looked at him with horror. “Isn't that enough? He's a monster and he has to be stopped.” Her gaze cut to Mae. “He came here because he found Josh. He left you a message. He wants a trade.”

“For me. I knew it. I'm sorry. So, so sorry.” Darya stood just behind Mae, her hands over her mouth.

Chet glanced at her, trying not to want to launch himself at her to wring her pretty rebellious neck. But his anger quickly vanished at her horrified expression. The girl looked ready to crumble.

Joyce's expression hardened. “You shouldn't have left in the first place.”

“I know.”

In her arms, Phil stirred.

“Is Bashim coming back?” Chet asked, feeling for Phil's pulse.

Joyce wiped blood from her husband's face. “He's not. You're supposed to go to him.” She looked up at
him then, her pained expression the final knot in his gut. “Darya…and you, Chet. He wants both of you for Josh.”

Chet closed his eyes. Of course he did.

He'd expected the protest, the angry tone from Mae. He'd expected her to be the one who freaked out, who stalked away, hands wild in the air, yelling.

Only this yelling wasn't in the right language.

A tribal dialect—one Chet had spent years honing—issued from Darya's mouth as she rained down curses on Akif, and his men, and life and, well, it tumbled out so fast, even Chet couldn't keep up.

But why would Darya care? After all, he'd gotten her half-sister killed. Strange she hadn't mentioned that. Strange she wasn't wildly rejoicing that Chet Stryker, aka Pancho, aka the man who'd started the mess, might finally be getting his just deserts.

She whirled around, and shock of shocks, tears careened down her cheeks, unchecked, hot and angry, as she stalked back to him. “Why did you have to come back here? Don't you know he's been waiting for you? Waiting for the day you would walk back into his sights? And no one is going to swoop in to save you this time. He's not going to let you get away. You could roll in there with an army and he'd die with his hands around your neck.”

Chet stared at her, seeing the passion in her blue eyes, hearing the pitch of terror in her voice, and time froze.

Carissa.

In the words of this Svan girl, he heard Carissa's voice, heard her pleading for him to take them, right now, out of the country.

He'd stood there in the sheltered alcove just inside
the protected gates of the Gori government seat and denied her. Shook his head. Watched her face tighten, her breath heave in and out, as he chose his duty and his job over escaping Georgia and Akif Bashim's power and protecting the woman he loved.

“I've been afraid of this day ever since my mother died. That you'd come here, and Bashim would find out and he'd kill you. Right before my eyes. Retribution for my having lived.”

Her words swiped the breath right out of his chest. “What are you talking about?”

Darya slicked the tears, almost violently, from her face and looked at him with a furious, almost rabid expression. “You are so stupid.”

Yes, he knew that. But somehow he had the feeling that she meant something more. “I don't understand, Darya.” As he stared at her, something vague and painful began to form slowly in his brain. “I know I'm an idiot for coming back here, but why would Akif want to hurt me, because of you?”

She clamped her hands onto her hips, incredulity on her face. Then she blew out a breath and raised her fists. “You still don't get it!”

The fog in his mind had begun to assemble into an image. Still, he stared at her, unable to speak.

“Akif is my
grandfather.
My mother was Carissa Bashim.”

Carissa…

“You, Chet Stryker, are my
father.
”

M
ae never really thought that Chet would come around to her way of thinking. He'd been so dead set on sending Darya back to her father—for the good of the country—that Mae had held out little hope he'd change his mind. Not only were the fragments of his guilt littered throughout the country in the form of burned buildings, vengeful terrorists and broken lives, but he believed in sacrificing for the greater good. For peace.

Like Darya, marrying a man for the political position, so she could be a patriot.

As soon as the truth issued from the woman's mouth, Mae knew they were true.

And not just because Darya was practically Chet's spitting image. Yes, Mae couldn't believe it had taken her—or him—this long to figure it out. Darya could be a younger, female version of Chet, the way she stood there, battling her father in a staring contest to end all time. She looked every inch as fierce and courageous and resolute and strong and regal as the man who stared back at her, nearly shaking with fury, or maybe disbelief, as he absorbed the heart-wrenching truth.

Carissa hadn't died that night. No, she'd lived, and she'd gone on to give birth to Chet's amazing, gorgeous
daughter who lived her own truth, and had grown into exactly the image of her father.

And Mae knew, too, exactly why he'd fallen for Carissa. Because she'd been his match. Brave. Passionate. Resolved.

Mae realized, as she watched Chet comprehend Darya's words, emotion washing over his face, that never, not for one blinding second, would he let her return to Akif Bashim's camp to be given as chattel to some Iranian prince. Never.
Nyet.
Not happening.

Which effectively meant that they'd switched sides.

Because Mae wasn't leaving this country without Josh, alive.

The only scenario she saw before her now—the only one she knew Chet would remotely consider—would entail him riding in like a sacrificial lamb, in the hopes that his presence might appease the wrath of Akif long enough for Josh to escape.

She could almost see that very plan forming in his head as he reached out for Darya.

She gave him her hand, and he pressed it between his. “You're my daughter?”

She nodded, tears rimming her eyes. She managed a shaky smile. “My mother longed to see this moment.”

He couldn't meet her eyes. His voice came out low, carefully enunciated, as if he had trouble finding it. “What happened to her?”

“She died a few years ago. Cancer. We didn't catch it until the end. But she had always hoped we'd meet. That you'd know she lived, and that she hadn't forgotten you.”

Her words resounded in Mae, and she hoped Chet heard them,
really
heard them. Carissa hadn't died. He hadn't caused her death.

“You're my daughter,” he said, and his voice contained wonder that made Mae want to cry, too. “You're my
daughter.
”

Then he pulled Darya to him and wrapped her in those amazing arms, the ones that could make anyone feel safe, and held on. He buried his face in her neck, and then…

He was crying. Sobs racked his shoulders, even as he reached around to hide his face. But she could hear him huffing.

Finally.

How she wanted to move toward him, to hold him, tell him that yes, it would be okay.

But this moment didn't belong to her.

Still, she wanted to weep with him. To rejoice and cry for all he'd discovered here, in the place he'd wanted to forget.

And then, of course, Chet put his daughter—his
daughter!
—away from him, held her by the shoulders and said the words Mae knew were coming.

“There's no way I'm going to let you go back to Akif, so you might as well drive that thought from your mind, Darya. It's over. You and Mae are leaving. Right now, on that bike, for Tbilisi.”

Oh, she was her father's daughter. She shook out of his grip, clearly gearing up for the fight. “Are you kidding me? I'm not leaving so Grandfather can kill you. And Josh. I
love
Josh.” Her gaze tracked to Mae. “I do. He's kind and wonderful and brave.”

“Then why go back? You know that Akif will only make you marry this Iranian,” Chet said, sounding like he'd already won the argument.

Mae wanted to raise her hand and suggest a few answers to that question.

Darya beat her to it. “Because my grandfather will kill Josh if I don't go back. And because I'm just like my parents. I don't care what it costs me to do the right thing. I figured that out when Josh and I got to the train station. I'm just sorry it took that long.” She glanced down at Phil.

His eyes were open, his hand pressed to his wound, looking at all of them as if they might be some sort of terrible train wreck.

Yeah, well, it was only going to get worse.

“You're not going, Darya.” Chet sounded more like a father every second. Or maybe unyielding and bossy was his default mode.

“Chet,” Mae started, and he looked at her as if seeing her for the first time in years. “Maybe you should listen to her.”

She knew he was struggling to respond because a tiny knot formed at the back of his jaw.

Mae kept her voice calm. “I'm just saying that if we all stop and think, maybe we'll find a solution. A plan that keeps everyone alive.”
Because I don't want you to die, either.
With everything inside her, she tried to put that message into her eyes.

But whatever hope they'd had of holding on to grace, of finding that blessing, of seeing the future together, died when he shook his head, walked over to the motorcycle and started the engine.

Then, without a backward look, as Darya ran after him screaming, and as Mae stood stock-still, everything inside her thrumming with pain, he drove away.

Darya turned into a figure of despair as she wrapped her arms around her waist and dropped to her knees in the dirt. Then she lifted her head and let out a wail that ripped through Mae.

Mae sank down behind her and pulled her into her arms.

“We'll get him back,” she said softly, lying with everything inside her.

 

Chet swerved to miss a pothole and managed to rocket the bike over a speed bump that sent it flying. It slammed with a puff of dirt back on the road. Okay, slow down.

Think.

He would admit to impulsively jumping on his bike and driving away before either of the women he loved—and yes, he
loved
Darya—could put their lives in danger.

The minute Darya had said,
“You're my father,”
he'd experienced an explosion inside that consumed the pain and self-hatred, and revealed one body-shaking truth.

He hadn't killed Carissa.

And right after that came the gift. He had a daughter. A beautiful, smart, amazing daughter.

He let that settle for just a moment before he went to…

Who wanted to sacrifice herself. Because she was like her parents.

I don't care what it costs me to do the right thing.

And she would do the right thing. She and Mae together would, because he could read Mae better than she thought, and one glance at her told him that behind those amazing green eyes, she was cooking up a plan.

One that would end with her in a body bag and Darya married to some prince she didn't love so she could spy for the CIA and him gripped in a fist of pain so tight he'd probably never break free.

Nor want to.

So why waste time? He'd jumped on his bike and floored it without a backward look, without a thought as to what he might be doing or how he'd possibly find the courage to face Akif. It was just a full-throttle, emotional reaction.

Perhaps Mae had a point. Impulse might be all he had left.

He'd turned to see the mission obscured behind the hills. Stopping the bike on the road, he took a breath and swiped his hand across his sweaty forehead. Now his heart hammered against his ribs, and despite the wind that kicked up the dust and carried the scent of smoke, he continued to sweat.

Sometimes his jaw still cracked when he opened it. And the odor of antiseptic could awaken his gorge. He'd logged way too much time in sanitized hospitals during his military life, starting right after the medevac flight out of the Republic of Georgia twenty years ago. Thanks, Bashim.

This time, he'd be lucky if he made it
to
a hospital.

Lucky. Blessed, maybe.

Chet crossed his hands over the handlebar of his bike, leaned down. Deep breath. Just start the bike and go. All he had to do was stay alive long enough to help Josh escape.

Then, Josh, Darya and Mae would leave. Even if it killed her, Mae would leave the country with Josh. Despite her impulses, he could count on her priorities.

Please, Mae.

 

Dear Chet,

I've never been shot, so I don't know what it's like to feel broken as you mentioned in your last letter. I do know what it feels like to have everything you
love stripped away, to face emptiness and to call out to God and get only an echo of your own voice back. And in these moments, I have to grab my Bible and assure myself that I'm not alone. That He has my back. Today I read Psalm 68. Did you know that God says that daily He bears our burdens? In other translations, it says He “loaded us with benefits.” And that word
benefit
—in the Greek—also means “cradle.”

I know you're probably juiced up on painkillers right now, but you're also cradled, Chet. Right in God's arms. He's got you.

The first time I jumped from an airplane, I was eighteen. I was terrified, so I went tandem. But getting up there on that wing and pushing off—suddenly all my fear leaked out of me. Why? Because the expert was right behind me. He had me.

I flew. I flung my arms out and screamed. My only view was the world, spread out like a three-dimensional map below me.

I know you feel alone, Chet. But I'm thinking about you—and God has you.

From the skies,

Mae

 

He'd kept that letter in his Bible. When this was all over and his pals went to his flat and packed up his belongings, they'd find it right in the passage next to Psalm 68. He had actually underlined the last part— “Our God is a God who saves; from the Sovereign Lord comes escape from death.”

Escape from death. Probably David meant spiritual death…only, he
was
a warrior, so, no, maybe he
had meant physical death. Painful, bloody, agonizing death.

Escape from death.

“God, I'm holding on here, with everything I've got. Please, please help me not to let go.”

Chet didn't have to dig deep to remember the landmarks that led him north, deeper into the oak and poplar forests, through the little village where he'd spent that last night with Carissa and right into the crease where Bashim niched his camp, deep in the foothills of South Ossetia. Darkness pooled in the crannies of the giant ridge he followed, the dirt one-lane road easily defensible from the pockets inside jagged boulders stacked on the hillside. The breath of the gathering winter cut like a knife as it chapped his face.

Night had nearly fallen by the time he pulled into Bashim's camp. Chet felt eyes tracking him as a finger of icy sweat rolled down his spine. When he got close, two soldiers, wearing ragged sweaters and bearing black M13s, eased out from behind a very impressive, and probably stolen, Russian tank.

The guards motioned him beyond their post and lifted radios to their mouths.

Bashim had upgraded his technology in the past twenty years.

Chet noted more upgrades in the mesh camouflage fencing that encircled the camp, the row of transport trucks, the ten-year-olds holding AK-47s, watching him with dangerous eyes as he pulled up.

Bashim clearly no longer feared detection. Where once he'd hidden his camp—composed mostly of cinder-block shacks with a pot for plumbing—under expansive oaks and bushy poplars, now it sat in the open with long barracks, still of the cinder block variety, and probably
still with questionable plumbing. The heavily fortified camp didn't seem in the least intimidated by the flimsy threat of Georgian—or any other—troops.

Especially not a lone man on a jalopy motorcycle.

The kids nearly laughed at him as they motioned him through the gate, no more than a few two-by-fours nailed together. Another dig at the Republic. Apparently, they didn't need security when they owned the hearts and minds of the youth.

Chet didn't have to wait for a welcoming committee. As soon as the gate closed behind him, he saw an envoy of soldiers. Or mercenaries. Or freedom fighters. Whatever they were calling themselves these days.

The kind he'd probably armed himself so long ago.

He recognized a couple of older thugs. He couldn't call up their names, but their dark, empty eyes bored through him with bone-chilling familiarity. Clearly, they remembered
him.

He stepped off the bike. Held up his hands in surrender.

The voice he dreaded came from behind him, like a bullet between the shoulder blades. “Welcome back, Pancho.”