Read Wiser Than Serpents Online
Authors: Susan May Warren
Wiser Than Serpents
Thread of Deceit
Romantic Times BOOKreviews
on
In Sheep’s Clothing
Library Journal
on
Sands of Time
For your glory, Lord!
I had just tossed the magazine in my growing TBR pile, not sure when I would read it, if ever. My husband happened to pick it up, captured by the title on the cover: The Global Slave Trade. “Hey,” he said, “did you read this?”
I sat down with the article and everything inside me tightened as I read about the epidemic of slave trade around the world today. From women and girls held in captivity to children and men in labor bondage, it’s a horrific situation. 600,000–800,000 people are trafficked internationally each year. Approximately 80% of them are women and children. And it happens in the United States, right under our noses.
One of the organizations trying to do something about it is the International Justice Mission. Think: a team of real-life Jack Bauers rescuing victims caught in the web of slavery. Lawyers, criminal investigators, social workers and volunteers from all walks of life who live Micah 6:8 daily: To seek justice for the oppressed. And they don’t just rescue victims (sometimes at the cost of their own lives!) but they also provide care and counseling, pursue legal justice and fight to prevent it from happening again.
The writer inside me was captured by this idea; the woman inside me ached for the girls forced into sexual slavery, and the Christian inside me said, “Do something!” Suddenly my adventures in Taiwan flooded back to me. We’d gone there for a month of recovery following a traumatic experience in Russia, and after reading the statistics on how so many people are transported through Asia, I knew Taiwan would make the perfect setting for this novel.
David, my American hero, was just the guy to fight this battle. Moreover, with so many of these victims being Russian, I just had to get Yanna involved, also.
Human trafficking is real. It’s an abomination. And must be stopped.
You can help:
Sign up to be a regular prayer partner with IJM, and receive weekly e-mails highlighting prayer requests.
Keep your eyes open to the world around you, and care enough to pay attention to possible illegal abuses of power, even slavery, right in your own backyard.
Finally, give financially to help IJM fight slavery. Over the past ten years, their lawyers, investigators and social workers around the world have rescued thousands of victims of sex trafficking and other forms of abuse and oppression.
I also want to help, and I’ll be donating 15% of the royalties from this book to support this cause. Thank you for helping me help them. For more information, visit www.ijm.org.
Thank you for reading
Wiser Than Serpents
. I pray it makes you wise, and aware of the serpents in our world.
In His grace,
Susan May Warren
O
ut of all FSB agent Yanna Andrevka’s bright ideas, masquerading as a mail-order bride ranked among the most stupid. This thought took root as she blinked against the sudden flood of sunlight and stared at her
groom
-to-be, Kwan, as he’d so kindly introduced himself—five foot nine of cut, Asian muscle, a scar running from his chin to his ear, an eyebrow pierced with a curved barbell, and eyes that looked like they could spear through her and take out her heart.
Here comes the bride.
Only this bride felt disheveled and grimy, her long hair hanging in strings over her face, her body stiff after being locked in a pitch-black storage room alone for what seemed like an eternity. That things were about to get worse seemed apparent as her captors/hosts/groomsmen dragged her blindfolded from the belly of wherever they’d stashed her, led her to Kwan’s office, sat her down in a chair and handcuffed her arms behind her. She’d had the presence of mind to fist her hands as they secured them, allowing for jangle room on her wrists. She twisted her hands, keeping the circulation pumping, fearing it might take her longer than she hoped to get out of them.
Yanna silenced the moans of fear that rose from the depths. Of course she’d recognized Kwan, even before his kind introduction. He’d been at the top of her Most Likely to Kidnap and Traffic Women search list. Thankfully, she’d also shared her suspicions with her FSB cohorts, which would be only slight consolation when they found her body floating with the fish.
What had she been thinking?
Kwan stood over her, hands loose, her blindfold dangling from one fist, his stance unassuming. The confidence in his body language turned her blood cold in her veins.
She raised her chin and managed to find her voice.
“Wõ zài nei li shì?”
Not that she expected an answer to her question—where am I?—but it bought her time as her brain spun and tried to fix on her surroundings. She smelled the brine of seawater, and small square windows evidenced a ship’s office. Streams of fading sunlight splotched the thinly carpeted floor and turned a smooth black desk to onyx. Her nausea clinched it—last time she’d been at sea, she’d lost half her stomach overboard and gained a new respect for the
rebotnik
who fished the Amur river near her home in Russia.
When Kwan didn’t respond, Yanna asked again, “Where am I?”
It occurred to her that she might be saying something that would earn her another slap, like,
Touch me again and die, you pig.
She hadn’t used her Mandarin for years, and she might be letting loose any one of the threats she conjured up for this man who’d kidnapped, and possibly killed, her sister Elena.
Kwan stepped back from her and leaned against the desk. He picked up a
pero,
a ten-inch knife, probably intending to terrify her, and chose a star fruit from the bowl on his desk. She ignored the press of hunger in her stomach. Her last meal had been about three decades ago, courtesy of the hotel at Incheon Airport, Seoul, Korea.
Kwan cut the fruit slowly, his gaze steady.
“Qingwèn, ni shì bu shì Meiguó rén.”
Was she an American? She hid a flare of indignation and gave him instead a quivering smile. “Do I look like an American?” she asked softly. She hid the flinch as he gave her a head-to-toe perusal, starting at her calf-high supple leather spiked-heel boots, past the black leather skirt, up to the sheer silk blouse and camisole. American? Hardly. Americans dressed in baggy jeans and sturdy hiking boots. Maybe not all Americans, but the ones she knew prided practicality over form. Missionary Gracie Benson nearly had to be coerced into wearing the pretty dress FSB agent friend Vicktor Shubnikov purchased for her trying to save her life. And Sarai Curtiss, Roman Novik’s girlfriend and humanitarian doctor, ran around the Khabarovsk University Hospital in a pair of yoga pants and running shoes.
Then again, a sturdy pair of Reeboks just might come in handy in about ten seconds when Yanna kicked that juicy smirk off Kwan’s face and demanded Elena’s whereabouts.
After she got out of the handcuffs, of course.
Kwan wore a smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes as he used the knife to bring a piece of star fruit to his mouth. The ring he wore on his middle finger sparkled in the fading sunlight, and she attributed the nasty bruise on her cheek to the snake’s head with the ruby stones. Finishing his silent assessment, he raised a thin black eyebrow. “You speak English.”
She nodded, purposely keeping her eyes down, catching a view of the two thugs who stood slightly behind her. She’d named them Fu and Wang, they looked like extras from a Jackie Chan movie. “I thought I was meeting my future husband. My
American
future husband,” she mumbled, hiding completely the simmer of terror that lurked just below the skin. Was this how Elena had felt? Had the two goons behind her also drugged the twenty-three-year-old Russian with some sort of drug, perhaps in her plate of dim sum while she waited for her flight to America in the Korean airport? Had they escorted/dragged her through Incheon airport and onto the plane, sat flanking her like Dobermans, and whisked her through customs and passport control in Taiwan like she might be a head of state?
Had they shoved her into a waiting sedan, then clamped a cloth over her nose and mouth, laughing while she kicked and fought and succumbed to yet another drug?
Most importantly, when she’d awoken, had Elena’s stomach turned to knots and threatened to climb up her throat when she realized that no one knew where she was, and that she’d been swallowed whole into a world of human trafficking, bondage and slavery?
Only these thoughts kept Yanna from kicking Kwan in the throat, making a fast break for the door, hurtling herself overboard into the cold China Sea and freestyling it toward shore. These, and the belief that following her hunches might lead her to her little sister.
Elena, why didn’t you listen to me?
Kwan laughed at her. He nodded to Fu and Wang to leave as he finished off the star fruit. Then he stood. As he left, Fu handed Kwan her passport, the one listing her as Olga Rustikoff. Through the briefly opened door, Yanna glimpsed bruised skies, blue sea, and heard the sound of a speedboat. How far were they from mainland China?
Kwan paged through the passport. Yanna heard the ship’s motors fire up, felt the boat list as it moved. For the briefest of seconds, she wished she’d listened to Roman and Vicktor, trusted their sources, their concern. And she wished David Curtiss, best friend and American soldier, had answered her e-mails. Yes, he’d told her he’d be undercover, deep under, in fact, but that hadn’t stopped him from writing before. From checking into her life. From caring. The fact he’d been ignoring her for nearly three months hurt more than anyone could ever know. He may think of her as a kid sister, but his friendship filled her world with a light and hope she couldn’t put into words.
