Point of No Return (11 page)

“M
ae, wake up. Mae.” His voice in her ear, a whispered tenor, made something warm curl inside her. His lips even brushed her neck, and a tingle went through her entire body. His arms' embrace had kept away the cool bite of night, and she longed to sink back in that warm, sweet, comfortable place…

“Mae, now.” And then a nudge, not quite so comfortable, on her back. “We need to go.”

Go? No more go, please.
But even as she thought it, panic forced open her eyes, and she shoved her hair from her face. Oh, she'd been drooling. Nice.

She tried to get her arms under her, but they felt like ramen noodles, bruised and useless. She flopped over onto her back and stared at the ceiling—or
not
the ceiling, more a jumble of boards through which she made out the hazy gray sky, slightly tinged with pink. She shifted, and straw crinkled underneath her, poking into her neck and pants legs. And then the smell. Earthy.

Oh, that was right. A barn. They'd found a barn about, what, a whole ten minutes ago? It must have been at least a couple of hours, because when they'd stumbled into the structure, the moonlight lit it up like the star over Bethlehem.

Chet looked down at her, concern in those incredible blue eyes. “You okay?”

She vaguely remembered dropping into a pile of hay somewhere near the door. “Where are we?”

“I think we're still about forty miles from Gori.”

“We can pick up our car at the station.”

“If it hasn't been vandalized.”

“You're a ray of sunshine this morning.”

“Speaking the truth, baby. Expectations are everything. But we'll cross that bridge later. Right now, I'm your knight in shining armor.” He dangled a key on a leather thong from his fingers.

“You got us another car?”

“Maybe not quite a car…”

“But we don't have any money.”

His smile dimmed. “Yeah, well, I've got my ways.”

“Please tell me you didn't promise them I'd muck out the barn or something.”

“I wouldn't do that to you,” he said, getting up.

And that was when she noticed.

“Your chain, it's gone.”

He met her eyes, but she couldn't pinpoint the look in them. He held her gaze without wavering. “I don't need it anymore. But we do need to get out of here, pronto.”

“Say no more.” She sat up, ran her hands through her hair—oh, what was the use?—grabbed her bag and pushed to her feet.

Chet caught her before she could wobble back down. “Stay upright, partner.” But he had a smile on his face that heated her through to her bones.

Partner.

Yes, maybe.

He slid his hand down, fed it into hers, and turned them toward the back of the barn.

Why had he gotten rid of his chain? But she didn't have time to ask—not when she saw their new, uh,
transportation
. As if it had time-traveled from World War II, a camouflage-painted three-wheeled motorcycle sparkled in the sunlight. Well, two wheels plus a—

“Is that a sidecar?”

“It's built right into the bike. It's called a ranger—it's Russian, and it comes with a searchlight, a jerrican and a shovel.” He grinned at her as if he was ten years old and had just opened the greatest present on earth from Santa.

“What's the shovel for—burying my dead body when that flimsy little bucket jostles off and I go flying off into the dust?”

“Oh, c'mon, you're overreacting just a little, aren't you? These babies are made for off-road fun—look at the wheels.” He kicked one as if she might not know where they were located. “They're knobby, like dirt bikes. We probably won't even need our Lada.”

Oh, how she missed the Lada.

“The farmer traded your necklace for the bike…why?” She went over to it, looked inside, too many decades of dirt caked inside the bucket. And the jerrican—well, if it still held fuel, she'd consider it a miracle from God.

Although the past twelve hours had felt a little like a miracle, what with Chet's hand wrapped around hers, and the feeling of hope she'd lost mid-flight from the train stirring again inside.

He'd kissed her, not once, but twice. And it had felt so achingly, wonderfully perfect to be in his arms, to unload it all. Until last night, she hadn't realized just how much she'd carried. Not just her fears about Josh, but her future and her past, all wound together like a
boulder strapped to her back. She'd dropped it all right at Chet's feet, and he didn't flinch. Didn't kick it away. Didn't run. Just held her, as if he'd help carry it.

Then he'd kissed her. More of a caress than a kiss, so tender it nearly made her cry. The second time, however, she could feel longing in his touch.

Chet continued to admire his newest mode of transportation. “The farmer says that…it's not exactly his.”

“You mean it's stolen?”

“I was thinking…maybe from local Georgian forces.”

“Oh, that's great. Which means that if they see us, we're arrested and deported for sure.”

“I'll make sure they don't see us.” He opened the gas tank, peering inside. “We'll see how she drives on our way to Gori, then stash it and nose around. I'm going to try to get a signal on my cell phone.”

“In Gori?”

“You'd be surprised where you can get a signal in Europe. They're more plugged in than we are in the States.”

“Even in the backwoods of the Republic of Georgia?”

“That farmer had a satellite dish. He was watching TV when I knocked on his door.”

She considered the bike. “Maybe we should offer up a little prayer.”

She was only half serious, but the minute the words left her mouth, she knew that, yes, that was exactly what they should do. Reach out for grace and hold on for dear life, just like Chet had suggested.

And Chet got it, too. He clasped her hand to his chest. “God
is
on our side, and it's time we asked Him for His blessing.”

He pulled her in tight, and began to pray.

“Lord, we're in a little over our heads here…”

She couldn't agree more. She wasn't just over her head in a strange country on a nearly impossible mission, but she was so over her head in love with this man… Oh, boy, she needed to put her mind on the prayer.

“…to help us find Josh. Keep Darya and Josh safe today, wherever they are, and point us in the right direction. Protect us…”

Protect us. She closed her eyes.
Why can't you let people help you?
Chet's words thundered back at her. He'd been right—she didn't like people protecting her, because she didn't want to trust them. People let her down.

And not just her father, or Chet.
God
had let her down.

Except maybe He hadn't. Maybe He'd sent Chet to protect her. To give her a second chance to trust Him.

To give her the future He wanted for her.

I'm thinking that I'm not the only one who hit the eject seat, Mae.

She hadn't even been willing to take a chance, to see what God had for her beyond flying. She'd just walked away. From Chet.

From God.

“…and most of all, help us to hold on to Your grace.”

I'm sorry, Lord, for not trusting You. For being angry. Thank You for not letting me go. For hanging on to me, even when I didn't hang on to You. Please, protect us. Bless us.

“Amen,” Chet said softly. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She smiled up at him. “Amen.”

Her gaze tracked to the motorcycle. “Maybe I should drive.”

His smile fell, just slightly. “Uh…okay. If you want to…”

“Oh, brother.” She slipped out of his arms, dropped her bag inside the sidecar and lowered herself to the seat, the leather crackling under her weight. The movement raked up the odor of oil and dust, and she curled her lip as Chet mounted the bike beside her.

Then he handed her a helmet.

“You're kidding me, right?”

“It came with the deal. I insist.”

“You'll push me off a moving train, but now I have to wear a helmet on a motorcycle?”

“If I'd had it last night, you woulda been wearing it. In fact, I think you should just put it on and keep it on. Forever.”

“Funny,” she said as she strapped it on. It couldn't get much worse, anyway. Her hair was matted to her head, her mouth tasted as if she'd eaten caterpillars for breakfast—which she had once done during survival school in the military—and every part of her body itched. And she hadn't eaten for what seemed like decades.

It only made it worse that the happy-go-lucky fella beside her looked devastating with three days of whiskers, wearing those goofy goggles and grinning down at her as if she might be his door prize.

“I'm hungry. I don't suppose we could stop by the house of our friendly neighborhood motorcycle thief and grab some grub?”

He stood and jump-started the bike, revving the engine. “Nope.”

“Why not? I think I could eat my bag.”

His smile vanished and his solemn expression made
her go numb. “Because, while the farmer was selling me the bike, I watched a little television. I think the embassy might have heard about your little moonlight job on the train as a tea girl. Someone got hold of your passport picture.”

“What?”

“Your beautiful mug made
Good Morning, Georgia,
sweetheart.”

 

Eleven unheard messages. Chet stood still in the broad sunlight, just outside the metal fencing of the Gori airport, cell phone held aloft—just in case that helped—listening to Wick's fourth message about exactly what he thought of his boss hightailing it to parts unknown and that he'd better check in—

Delete. Next message.

Vicktor. “I'm not sure where you are, Chet, but if it has something to do with the fact that Mae isn't answering her phone either, then you and I need to talk—”

Wow, how easily Vicktor's guesses ran to Mae. Apparently they knew him better than he thought. Delete.

Two more from Wick, one from Luke telling him he'd deposited Brumegaarden's check—at least his account would have money in it—and one from Artyom, calling to say he'd done a security check on the computer.

Chet also deleted the call from Ole Miss Miller, wanting an update.

His gaze found Mae, crouched on the curb, her bag slung over her shoulder, eating a
peroshke.
He'd bought them an entire bag, bartering the tools Mae had acquired from the Lada with a street vendor. They'd motored past the now vandalized—missing wheels, shattered front windshield, sheared-off steering wheel—car on their
way to the airport, where Chet guessed they'd find cell reception. Now Mae sat polishing off her third deep-fried lamb-filled sandwich and guzzling down an orange drink of unknown composition. He'd finished off his three sandwiches on the way over.

Behind him, just beyond the rusty aerodrome, a small airplane spit to life. He watched it taxi down the weedy, cracked tarmac.

Anyone who could fly a Russian airplane…his gaze went to Mae. She could fly a Russian airplane. She could fly a tin can if it had wings. And fix a car. And jump from a train.

She could even hold it together while he careened over bumpy back roads in an ancient motorcycle. Most of all, she could look cute doing it, especially in her helmet and goggles, which she'd finally decided to wear after five minutes of blinking back dust. Her hair streamed out under her helmet and the way she ducked down, hands gripping the sides of the car, she looked like the Red Baron, or a World War I bomber pilot.

He'd probably caught flies in his teeth, thanks to his silly grin.

Chet had to admit he never thought it would be this…well, maybe
fun
wasn't the right word, considering they were on the lam and maybe even targets, now that Mae had made national news. And they were broke. And still hungry. And bruised from their flying leap off a moving train.

The word might be
exhilarating.
Or perhaps
satisfying.
Maybe even
surprising.
Yes, Mae surprised him. With her easy forgiveness, her friendship, her courage, her stamina. The sweetness that filled her eyes when she smiled at him.

Here he'd thought having her on a mission would
only make him lose his edge. Curiously, it seemed to make him sharper. A familiar energy buzzed through him, the kind he used to experience on a mission when he and David could read each other's thoughts, or when he knew something was going right.

For the first time in nearly a year, he felt as if he wasn't wasting his time, that he might be doing something that mattered.

His hand went to his neck. He'd hung on to that chain so long, his bare neck felt naked. Or lighter, somehow. He wasn't sure what had made him freely offer the chain Carissa had given him—he'd simply found it in his hands as he asked the farmer to trade it for a way to freedom with Mae.

Maybe, instead of a memory, Carissa's gift had only chained him to the past. To grief.

Next message. “Chet, it's Gracie. Mae's sister called me and she's frantic with worry.”

Oh, no, Mae's former roomie. Of course Mae's sister would have her number. And of course, Gracie would immediately turn to Chet.

Apparently, he had somehow broadcast to everyone he knew that he had never really gotten over the redhead who'd slipped under his skin.

And into his heart.

Where she clearly belonged.

Mae rose, dusting off the back of her grimy cargo pants, and wandered over to a newspaper vendor peddling the latest editions from Tbilisi and Gori. She picked up one of the issues, peering at it. What, now she could read Georgian?

Gracie's voice rose in pitch through the phone. “Apparently, Mae hasn't been in touch with her sister, and she said to tell her—if you know where she is—and
I'm now quoting, ‘Joshy called, and she told him that Mae is trying to find him, and he said he's going back to camp.'”