Mission: Out of Control (13 page)

“T
he Dutch have a saying, you know. God created the world but the Dutch created the Netherlands.” Ronie slid open the drapes in her hotel window overlooking Dam Square.

“I think you might be Dutch. You have to be in charge of everything,” Leah said.

“Funny.” Brody sure knew how to pick hotels—this one had a view of the palace, with its neoclassical façade, and beyond that, the National Diamond Exchange.

She wasn't exactly deaf—she'd heard the conversations Brody and his team had quickly had during the trip to Amsterdam about tracking Damu, about him pawning off the diamonds in a place where they could be mixed with legitimate stock.

A place like the National Diamond Exchange.

If only Bishop would return her call. She'd like him to weigh in on Brody's plan—the one that included parking them two blocks away from the Exchange, in hopes of finding and following Damu, maybe tracking down his contact. Rescuing Kafara.

Oh, how she wanted to tag along with the Stryker team as they followed Damu. However, she knew Brody
too well. He would lie in front of a bus before he'd let her near Damu.

And frankly, she couldn't bear to see him hurt. Not after what he'd gone through with Shelby.

“I love Holland. Have I ever mentioned that?” She turned to open her suitcase.

“A few times.” Leah set a folder on the desk, next to the faux animal-print chair. Gold wallpaper and a dark walnut headboard made Ronie feel as if she were in a box of dark Dutch chocolates.

“Oh, I love the windmills,” Leah said in her best Ronie imitation. “And can I get a bicycle?” She batted her eyes at Ronie.

“Funny. But I do want a bicycle. Imagine being able to cycle everywhere, over the cute little bridges, in front of the canals, with the houses tucked side by side like a Christmas village.”

“You can only bicycle because there are no hills in Holland. It's a pancake. You'd get to a hill and call for a taxi. By the way, I put in an order of
Stroppewaffles
at the front desk. You know they're pure sugar, right?” Leah asked.

“Stop. Keep me in my dream world where caramel and waffle sandwiches are good for you.”

“Fine, live large. You'll be dieting when you can't fit into your costumes anymore.”

“I've been thinking about that. What if Vonya's next album is all blues covers. Like ‘God Bless the Child' or ‘I'll Be Seeing You.'” She hummed a few bars. “Maybe we'll nix the funky outfits.”

“I think your fans would think you've lost your mind.”

“I could wear dresses from the twenties, like my flapper dress. I love that costume.”

“You're not the only one.”

Ronie glanced at her. “What are you talking about?”

Leah smiled. “Nothing. I think Lyle would like to go to that carnival tonight, maybe after the concert?”

Ronie glanced outside again, at the bedazzled Ferris wheel in front of the palace. “I'll have to ask Brody. But probably that will work.”

“You and he have barely left each other's side since Prague. I mean, he's a little obsessive, isn't he? He even stood outside the bathroom in the airplane today.”

This was why she should have told Leah about the shooting. But Brody and the Stryker team had her on lockdown. She couldn't breathe a word, in case she had some terrorists in her company. Who did they think wanted to kill her—Lyle?

“Brody's just doing his job.”

“I think he's more than doing his job. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a glass to the door right now.” She leaned toward her bedroom door, which led to the bigger suite. “Hear that, Mr. Bodyguard? You're creeping me out.”

Ronie laughed. The whole thing seemed so unbelievable, and worse was hiding it from Leah. “Okay, the truth is, they think that someone we know might be…the diamond smuggler.” She held up her hand to Leah. “I know, I know, our crew is like family, it's just that they linked a bunch of Damu's messages to a particular person to dates when I had gigs and, well, they're stalking Damu.”

“They think he's involved?”

“I don't know. Sometimes he emails me when he's going to be in town. Which, yes, I realize is fairly often. But he never comes to my concerts so I don't know why they think he might be here to see me. But he is in Amsterdam so they're suspicious. I can't wait for this nonsense to be over. Only two more days, then we'll be home, and everything will go back to normal and…”

Two days and Brody's job would be over. She'd very effectively put that truth behind her. She'd gotten so accustomed to seeing him every morning with her macchiato, and having him standing in the wings of her concerts, and eating his delicious omelets, and…

Hoping she might someday sing for him again. A song of her choosing.

Oh, good grief, she needed to put that out of her mind, too.

“What's that face?” Leah had stopped with her hand on the door. “I knew it! You
are
in love with him, aren't you?”

Ronie froze. “No. Of course not. I mean, what on earth do we have in common? He's bossy and has to be in charge of everything. And then there's the whole…well, he's bossy. And!” She pointed at Leah. “The most glaring reason of all. He is my
bodyguard.
”

“I'll say.”

“Stop, he's getting paid to do this, if you re member.”

“Right. Paid. Of course.” Leah smiled. “Do you really think that a guy who is paid would be humming the swing song?” Leah came toward her. “But it's more than that, Rons. Of course you're in love with him—he's
the kind of guy you can actually count on more than yourself. And he gets you. He anticipates your moves, like he's studied you—”

“He's supposed to—he's my bodyguard.”

“Get over that! Is a bodyguard supposed to hide all the tabloids so you don't get embarrassed?”

He'd been doing that? Funny, now that she thought about it, no, she hadn't seen a tabloid since the day after Damu's birthday party. When she'd mentioned how she'd hated them to Brody…

“Is he supposed to give you tours around Prague and buy you seafood dinners?” Leah's voice held a spark of mischief.

Okay, so maybe he hadn't exactly been a bodyguard that night…

“I know you, Ronie. He's the kind of guy you've always dreamed about, the one on the white horse that will catch—”

“That's enough, Leah. You know I've never been the type who needs catching. And I'm not going to start now.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

Ronie took her clothes out of her suitcase and began to fill the bureau. She never liked living out of a suitcase, even if it might be for only a few days.

Two days, actually.

Leah touched Ronie's arm. “You don't always have to be your own rescuer, Ronie. You can let someone else do it.”

She closed her eyes. “Why
should
he?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. I've done nothing but lie to him, and play games
with him, and betray him, and now I'm going to expect him to save my hide? I don't think it works that way.”

“That's exactly how it works, honey. That's what love does. It rescues when it doesn't have to—even when it seems like it shouldn't. Love rescues because it
wants
to.”

“But he doesn't love me, Leah.” Her voice felt so very small.

Leah pulled her into a hug. “I very much disagree with you. But frankly, that's not the problem.”

“It's not?”

“No,” she said, breaking their hug. “The thing holding you back from Brody isn't his love for you, or even your love for him. It's the fact that you can't love yourself. It's your own feelings of unworthiness that are keeping you from love. You despise yourself for letting your sister, and your mother, and your father—and yourself—down.”

Her eyes burned and she turned away. “It wasn't my fault my sister died.”

Leah caught her arm. “Keep telling yourself that. Because I'm hoping someday you believe it. But until you do, you could try forgiving yourself. Or at least reach out and let someone help you do it.”

She went over to the bedside stand and opened the drawer. “Oh, God bless those Gideons.” She picked up the Bible and tossed it onto the bed. “If you need proof, try Romans 5:8. It's a great reminder that even when we didn't know we needed or even wanted forgiveness, God did. It's not about deserving it. It's about God wanting to love you. You're only unforgivable in your own eyes, Miss Vonya.”

Ronie picked up the Bible, and ran her thumb over the gold-embossed word. She hadn't been in a church since Savannah's death. Because, yes, how did you face God when you knew you'd failed?

“You might want to consider that God has forgiven you. What gives
you
the right to not forgive you?”

The door clicked shut as Ronie sat down and paged open to the index.

 

“Our smuggler's actions make perfect sense. It's not hard to mix in contraband diamonds among the official ones.”

Chet sat in the living room of his suite, reports spread over the glass-topped table, his computer open. The radio squawked an update now and again from Luke and Vicktor, who had found Damu last night and now parked outside his hotel.

“You think Damu tracked her down, maybe tried to shoot her for taking his computer? But how would he know about the meeting? I still can't get past the idea that this Bishop guy is mixed up in this,” Brody said.

“He could be. Or it could be the smuggler—someone who thinks that Ronie is on to him. Or her. Maybe the person knows about Bishop's plan, and they're trying to cut off the source.”

Brody paced in front of the table. “We're missing something. The whole operation just feels messy. I want to be there, camped outside his hotel.”

“And you want to be
here,
camped outside Ronie's room, too. Trust your team, Wick. That's what we're here for.” He made a face. “I learned that in Georgia, when you guys pulled me out of Akif's camp.”

Brody looked at Chet, thinking of how Chet had been forced to leave the daughter he'd only just met behind, in Akif's camp. That had to have taken a good-size chunk out of his chest, yet here he was, living, breathing, happily married.

How did a person get there? How did he go from bleeding out on the inside to being patched up and able to reach out and embrace the good things, healing things? Like…Ronie.

Just being around her, even briefly, felt like something healing and whole inside Brody. Like, for a little while, he could glimpse that power that allowed Chet to sit on the sofa, drinking coffee, letting the sunlight pour into the room.

“Sit down, Wick. You're making me seasick.”

Brody squeezed his bulk into a chair. He leaned back. Rubbed his hands on the arms of the chair. Breathed out. Leaned forward. Folded his hands.

“Okay, what?”

“It's just…there are too many unknowns. We're not any closer to figuring out who took a shot at her, and she has another show tonight, and I feel…naked. What if our guy tries something while she's onstage? I can't be beside her there.”

A smile crept up Chet's face. “That I'd like to see.”

“It's not funny.”

“Listen, the crowd will go through a security check as they enter the club. We'll be all over the auditorium, and you'll be ten feet away. She'll be fine.”

Brody rubbed his eyes. His head had started to throb, right in the back.

“Wick, there was a reason I wanted you to take R & R. And it had nothing to do with me being out of the office for a month. It had everything to do with the fact that you haven't shaken off what happened in Darfur. You can't forgive yourself for your mistake with Shelby, and for shooting those kids.”

Brody winced. He couldn't look at Chet. “I don't want to talk about that.”

“I don't care. It's starting to affect your job. You're like a caged lion and it's going to make you sloppy.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I'll do better.”

“I don't need you to do
better,
Wick. Good grief, if anyone can do this job, it's you. I need you to stop over-thinking this. You have great instincts—use them.”

“I can't trust my instincts. I…I feel like I can't trust anything anymore.” He hadn't meant to reveal quite that much, but Chet, perhaps, understood him better than anyone. Chet knew what it felt like to make a mistake, to watch someone you love get hurt.

He'd watched the first woman he ever loved be beaten to death right before his eyes. Or, at least, he thought she had died. Try living with that for a couple decades. “How did you get over losing Carissa? Didn't it take you apart inside?”

Chet's face flickered. He swallowed. “Still does, sometimes. But it's then I realize how much in need of a Savior I am. Because I can either let my mistakes consume me, or I can let them bring me to my knees and ask for help.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“That's the problem, Wick. See, you always see yourself—I know this about you, because I was the same
way—as the guy who can get it done. The oldest of eight—”

“Nine.”

“—nine children, the head of your Green Beret unit, the guy who everyone else leans on. You're the go-to man. Somewhere deep inside, you figure that probably you and God are a good team. Equal. You do your part, He does His.”

“Isn't that how it works?”

“That's how everyone
thinks
it works—and that's why you have so many people walking around afraid to talk to God. Because, like me, like you, they've blown it. They've dropped their part of the bargain.”

Brody stared at his hands.

“But you're not supposed to bring anything to God, Wick. He can't work in your life if you think you can do the job just as well as He can. We have to get to that realization that we have nothing that God needs. Matthew 5:3 says, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit.' In one of my translations, it says, ‘Blessed are those who realize their need for Him, or depend only on Him.' It means the paupers in this life, who realize they have nothing to offer God.
Theirs
is the kingdom of heaven. God wants to be your savior, Wick. Just like you're Ronie's.”