Point of No Return (7 page)

Namely, his mistakes.

Or, perhaps his still-raw emotional wounds. Which had clearly made him delirious, because he'd just about told her the entire story. The true story, not the one he had edited for his superiors almost two decades ago.

The one that haunted him, and brought him right back to the forests of central Georgia.

 

Sometimes there's a wound inside so deep, it can steal your breath with its completeness. At times, it feels as fresh as the day you were injured. And you wonder in that moment if God has turned away from you, horrified at your ugliness, and if it is ever possible to be whole again.

 

He did remember writing that to her, now.

He rubbed his chest, reliving how she, ever so briefly, slid into his arms, sweetly kissing him with more than he'd ever hoped for. Her silky hair between his fingers, her hands on his arms, her touch holding nothing back…and he'd drunk it in like a parched man. He couldn't even find words to explain why he'd done it, why he'd reached for her. Only that, for a second, he'd lost himself in her arms. Just let go and reached for her with everything inside him, exposing him for the desperate man he was.

Then, he'd opened his big stupid mouth.

Crazy. She made him
crazy.
Words to woo her with.

But being with her did stir up all kinds of crazy—like the idea that they could ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. Right, with him leaving a trail of blood from his freshly opened wounds. Clearly wounds like his—the kind that cut to the soul—didn't heal. And he'd done his time on his knees, asking. Begging. Like Paul and his thorn.

Not that he deserved to heal. He'd resigned himself to learning how to live with the pain, however poorly he managed it. But he wasn't going to doom her to live with it, too.

“This reminds me of Washington—the rolling hills, the drape of fir trees over the hills, the smell of decaying leaves. I'll bet it's gorgeous from the air,” Mae said, her voice soft in front of him.

Gorgeous, yes.

Like the picture of her moving with the gait of this beautiful animal they were riding, looking fresh and pretty under the kiss of the morning sun. He put his hands on her waist, drew in the fragrance of her long red hair as it blew against him, and listened to her travel commentary and tales of Seattle. He nearly wanted to cry with the pleasure of it. He'd already heard the story of the Great Barfer and an assortment of other catastrophes, and she'd moved on to updates on her friends Roman and Sarai, and Yanna and David, in Moscow.

If he closed his eyes, it felt almost like he was one of her letters, the news of her life like a salve.

Gorgeous, yes. Paradise.

Oh, brother. Talk about crazy.

“So, do you have a brilliant plan to find Josh when we get to Burmansk?” he asked, keeping his voice free of the panic that coiled tighter with each passing minute.

“I thought I'd start at the mission. Maybe they know where Josh liked to hang out, or where he'd go when he wasn't in camp.”

“If he's trying to escape with Darya, he's probably heading toward a major city, or at least toward some sort of transportation out of the country.”

“We won't know anything until we talk to his coworkers and get a read on his motives. I tried calling his teammates before I left, but the few I got hold of didn't have any idea what I was talking about. If Josh and Darya had something cooking, they kept it under the radar.”

“Maybe they're holed up some place having a romantic tryst.”

“Please, this is Joshy.” She flashed him a look over her shoulder.

“Who is a nineteen-year-old college student! I'm being serious.”

“I don't know why I talk to you.”

“Sorry. Okay, how's this—maybe he's come to his senses and returned to the camp.”

“Better.”

He leaned forward, over her shoulder, and caught her grin. How he longed to wrap his arms around her waist, cocoon her into his embrace.

“So, does your brilliant idea include a way to talk Josh into leaving without Darya?”

She went still in front of him. “Not necessarily.”

Shoot, he just had to bring that up, didn't he? Sometimes, he was his own terminator. Still,
not necessarily?
Someone needed to face reality here. “Mae, Darya's taken. We have to convince Josh that he can't be her hero.”

“Do you smell smoke? Like a campfire?”

Her tone that told him that no, her plans didn't include coercing Darya into marrying against her will.

Letch.

“Look, if there's another way to solve this thing, I promise to listen, okay?”
Please, please, Mae.

She looked back at him, hope in her beautiful eyes. “Really?”

“I'm really not a—”

“Letch? I…probably shouldn't have said that.” She gave a small smile, an offering. He offered one back.

“And, yes, I smell smoke.” And in fact, he saw it, too, a billow of darkness against the far horizon.

“Is that the direction of Burmansk?”

He'd been given control of the map, if not the horse, and dug it out. “Could be.”

She urged their mount into a canter. “Hang on.”

Just the words he'd been hoping for.

She found a deer path through the woods and had to slow to a trot but managed to keep them seated. Overhead the oaks canopied them, dappling shadow on the forest floor. He remembered the war games in these forests, teaching the rebels how to camouflage themselves, how to dig into an opportune position, how to wait for their opening. Almost on instinct, he spotted prime ambush and sniper positions.

“Let's get out of here,” he said and pointed toward an opening in the forest scape. She nodded, followed a ravine out of the woods, and emerged onto a dirt road.

She reined the horse to a stop.

Chet moved his hands to her arms, holding her steady.

In the distance, at the bottom of the hill, the village burned. Flames clawed out of the windows of a building,
and plumes of black smoke covered the sky, although they were too far away to see the extent of the inferno.

“Hands of Hope mission,” Mae said.

“Maybe. Let's go.”

Mae pushed their horse into a gallop and Chet reached around her, holding the mane, trying to keep both of them on the horse's sweaty back. As they drew closer, sirens whined, and military vans moved in and out of the smoke.

It cleared with a gust of wind, revealing villagers standing away from the flames, hands pressed to their mouths. A few pulled tattered sweaters around their bodies. Women held children to their bosoms, covering their eyes. The stench of burning rubber and wood, and molten metal, filled the air.

At the center of the chaos, a blackened two-story wooden building groaned as it was consumed. Next to it, a flatbed truck had begun to buckle.

Mae brought the horse close enough to see a group of firefighters pumping water from an ancient truck, spitting a pitiful stream onto the building.

“I hope everyone got out,” Mae said as Chet slid from the horse and reached for her.

Miraculously, she slipped into his arms. He read fear in her eyes. Josh. Chet took her hand while he had the chance.

He'd worked at a number of refugee camps during his military tours and he knew what to look for. He located someone wearing what looked like Western clothes—a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that said Wheaton College. College-aged, evidenced by her long blond hair pulled into a shaggy ponytail, the aid worker stared in fear as the fire roared, a living being, mesmerizing her. He touched her shoulder.

She whirled, wide-eyed.

Chet held up his hand in surrender. “Americans. We're Americans.”

“What are you doing here?” She trembled, tears furrowing down her grimy cheeks. “What do you want?”

“I'm looking for someone—” Mae started, but Chet ran over her words with his.

“What happened here?”

The worker looked between them, as if not sure whom to respond to first.

She decided on Chet. “Rebel forces. Or Russians, we don't know. We just woke up this morning to a fire in our medical center. Everything's lost—the food, the medical supplies…”

Patients. The horror on her tear-streaked face told the truth.

“Is this Hands of Hope?”

She nodded. “We just got here a couple of days ago. I…I don't know what to do.”

Chet glanced at Mae. Then probably she wouldn't have heard of—

“I'm looking for Josh Lund. He was an aid worker who went missing a couple of days ago. Do you know him?”

She blinked at Mae, as if trying to comprehend her words. Then she shook her head.

“You're here for Josh?” The voice came from a large woman who wore her years in her wide face. Greasy smoke smeared her cheeks as her gaze tracked to the fire behind them and back again.

“I'm his aunt,” Mae said.

Great. If Mae had taken a second to consult him, instead of acting on impulse, he might have suggested
leaving that tidbit of information out. Namely because of the very look the woman gave her.

As if Mae herself were responsible for the chaos her nephew had left in his wake.

“Perfect. Maybe you could explain, then, why he decided to disregard everything we've tried to do here—specifically, to stay neutral in this conflict so we can earn the trust of the locals—and instead kidnap one of the locals? What exactly is he thinking?”

Yep, Chet would have left out Mae's direct approach and gone with something a little less revealing. “I don't think Josh kidnapped her,” Chet said quietly, hoping Mae got the hint. The last thing they needed here was a dash of her sarcasm to fan the flames. “I think it's a misunderstanding.”

“Does this look like a misunderstanding to you, Mr.—”

“Stryker. Stryker International. I run a private security company.”

See? Coming in like the good guys never hurt. People in danger liked the word
security.

“Good, because we could use a little security here. Starting with the return of Darya to her father, who has threatened to come back in two days and burn the rest of our village to the ground if he doesn't have her. How about that for
security?
”

So, maybe that hadn't been quite the right word. “We're here to help—we'll track him down and return the girl.”

He tightened his grip when Mae tried to jerk her hand away.
Calm down.

The woman scanned Chet, then Mae. “Joyce Warner. My husband, Phil, is the director of our mission.” She
sighed, and the air drained from her, taking with it her anger. “Listen, we like Josh. And none of us knew who Darya was until her father showed up looking for her. Evidently, she was living with a local woman, and her father had no idea she was working at the clinic. We don't know what happened between her and Josh. Maybe he did just make a mistake. I don't know. I do know that I've heard talk of a village posse going out after him, so if you want to head that off, be my guest. I also know that if Bashim and his men return, and Josh and Darya aren't here, then we're all in big trouble.”

Chet read between the lines. Josh's actions threatened the mission and the tenuous foothold peace had in this region.

He hated how well he understood every side of this fight. And what he had to do next.

“Mae, you need to stay here. If Bashim is out hunting for Josh and Darya, who knows what I'm going to find? I can't have you in the mix.”

This time she did yank her hand away. “Really, this conversation needs to stop. For the hundredth time, I'm going with you.” Then she held up her hand, pasted on a smile, and said, “I'm going to pretend you aren't actually speaking. Maybe that you're not even here.”

Oh, for the love of Pete.

She turned to Joyce. “I will find Josh, and Darya. But I need some help. Do you know where he liked to go, or anyone who might have helped him? He's in a foreign country and doesn't speak the language—”

“Actually, he speaks it pretty well. He was taking lessons from a woman outside the village. Three mornings a week.”

Screams behind them cut off Joyce's words. An outer
wall of the building caved in, sparks flying onto the spectators. Villagers ran for cover.

Joyce yelled at them in Georgian.

Chet grabbed her arm before she could hustle off. “Where is this woman?”

“Outside the village,” she said, pointing west, beyond Burmansk. “She's American by birth, her name is Laura. She lives in a yellow dacha about a mile from town.”

Another scream, and Chet let her go.

Mae turned and headed toward their horse.

“Mae—”

“Don't do it, Chet. Besides, even if you do find Josh, if I'm not along you don't have a prayer of getting through to him.”

He stopped, then caught up with her in two steps. “Why?”

She glanced at him, her lips pursed, her expression tight.

“Why, Mae?”

“Because, well, I didn't exactly like you this past year, and I may have told him how I felt, with a possible few embellishments.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

“That you couldn't be trusted. And maybe that everything that came out of your mouth was a lie.”

“A lie.”

“And that you are about the most…selfish guy… I'm sorry! I was mad.” Her eyes brimmed and she brushed the moisture away, almost angrily. “Smoke. Let's get out of here. We've got twenty-four hours to find him and convince him and Darya that you're not the devil.”

Looking at the mud, hearing the screams, seeing the pockmarks of bullets on the village houses, knowing
he'd started the war that had destroyed so many lives and homes, not to mention had put the hurt in Mae's eyes, Chet wasn't exactly sure that was possible.

M
ae refused to think about the way Chet had tried to push her aside, jumped on their horse and barely pulled her up behind him.

She made a point of locking her arms around his waist.

She wouldn't put it past him to dump her out on this dirt road—his definition of “keeping her safe.”

She'd seen the look in his eyes when Joyce Warner had mentioned Bashim. That same flash of
I'm-not-telling-you-but-this-is-bad
panic.

She tightened her grip on him as they moved with the gait of the cantering horse. See, they could do this, together, if he'd just let her get close enough to help—instead of constantly making it clear that he didn't want her around.

They'd left the drama of the village behind and she'd only looked back once, watching as the smoke blackened the sky and shadowed the valley in doom.

Oh, Josh, what were you thinking?

Chet still had their horse at a canter as they sank down into a valley, the terrain blotting out the village. Around them, foothills rose to rocky cliffs, scrub brush scarring the hills, backdropped by the purple mountains
at the base of the mountains, leading north. In another time and place, she'd call it beautiful.

But at the moment, it just felt desolate. “Why would someone live way out here?”

She would rather live in smog-infested Beijing than a place so far from humanity. She liked her internet, her cell phone. She lived and breathed her relationships, as scattered as they were around the globe. With all this open space and no technology, she'd probably suffocate.

“I can think of a few reasons,” Chet said as they topped the hill and she spotted a tiny yellow house.

“Like finding the quiet of your own thoughts. Or not having someone shooting at you.”

“I thought that part of your life was over.”

“I hope it is.”

He didn't sound as sure as she would have liked. Just how dangerous was his work? She imagined him staking out buildings, maybe guarding American diplomats. Yes, perhaps the shooting had just begun.

They slowed to a trot and then a walk as they left the main road and followed a footpath to a stucco-yellow house about twice the size of her mother's trailer. It sat nestled in the cleft of two rising foothills covered in lush green fir. Smoke trickled from a stone chimney, and a stone well and iron pump conjured up images of a simpler way of life.

It looked as if Laura lived without indoor plumbing—another benefit of modern society Mae heartily approved of.

“Hello? Laura?” She spoke English as she and Chet dismounted, hoping to put the woman's mind at ease. No movement.

Chet tied the horse's reins to the pump. “We're just here to talk.”

Still no movement behind the bright blue door. A breeze stirred a bunch of dill weed, hung upside down to dry on the porch.

“Maybe she's not here.”

“Prevyet!”

The voice came from behind the house. In a moment, a woman appeared around the side, holding a basket of zucchini.
“Shto vwe hatitye?”

“We're Americans,” Mae said. “I'm looking for Josh Lund. I'm his aunt.”

“Stop telling people that,” Chet hissed so only she could hear. “You don't know who you can trust, or how they'll use information against you.” He turned to the woman. “Let me help you with that.”

She considered him a moment, then handed him the basket, wiping a strand of long blond hair from her face, where it had escaped from her white head scarf. The wind plastered a pair of nylon pants to her skinny legs, and she drew a knee-length blue sweater, buttoned over her trim figure, tighter around her body. Mae placed her in her mid-fifties. Dirt dusted her hands up to her wrists. She squinted at Mae. “Americans?”

Chet set the basket on the porch. “Are you Laura?”

“Who's asking?” She went over to the pump next to the well and began to work the handle. Water trickled out and she washed her hands in the spray.

“I'm Mae.” She looked over at Chet as she said, “I'm Josh's aunt.”

Chet rolled his eyes.

“Have you seen him?”

The woman wiped her hands on a dirty towel hung over the top of the pump. “Maybe.”

“Please. We're trying to help Josh. Apparently you taught him Georgian?”

The woman looked from Chet to Mae, took her basket from Chet and then turned toward her house. “Come inside. I'll make some tea.”

“We don't have time—” Mae started, but Chet gave her such a nasty look that she shut her mouth and followed him into the house.

It had been built to survive time. Thick stone walls betrayed their age with crumbling mortar cracks, and the wooden floor bowed in the middle, under a threadbare woven rug.

However, the place surprised her with its warmth. A coal furnace the size of a bear jutting into the center of the room chased the chill into the corners. Atop it, a soot-blackened pot simmered, the top jiggling, pressing out steam. A knitted afghan lay wadded on a worn wooden rocker near the window, and through the bedroom doorway, a red wool blanket covered a neatly tucked double bed. In Washington, such a place would be advertised as a “rustic” getaway, and rented for two hundred dollars a night.

Laura set her basket on the long wooden table and pulled out a chair, gesturing for Chet to sit. She nodded to the other chair for Mae.

Mae met Chet's eyes as he waited, eyebrow raised, clearly waiting for her to sit.

Fine.

The minute she took her place in the chair, her stomach let out a growl.

Laura took two stained cups from a shelf over her metal sink. “You're hungry.”

Mae shook her head, but Chet offered, “Maybe a little.”

What, did he want to spend the next week here? She glared at him when Laura's back was turned.

Trust me,
he mouthed.

Whatever.

Laura came back to the table, set down the cups, and then Chet—the “casual tourist”—opened his mouth and began to speak. In Georgian. Effectively cutting her out of the conversation. Laura listened to him, then nodded and left the room for a moment.

“What did you tell her?” Mae hissed.

Chet considered her. “That you were a little impatient. And that this child is not unlike your own son, and you were desperate to find him before he was caught and killed.”

Mae glanced at Chet, her anger deflated. “You told her that?”

“You were being a little rude. I felt the need to explain.”

Whose side was he on?

Laura spoke as she returned and went to the stove. “Josh used to come here a lot, with Darya. He felt comfortable here. He told me my place reminded him of a summer camp he attended when he was a kid.”

Yes, the summer camp that took kids from Phoenix and sent them to the mountains. The one she'd scraped up enough to send him to each year.

Laura returned to the table, holding the steaming teapot. Balancing a small strainer filled with tea leaves over each cup, she poured the water through it. “I miss coffee, but I love Georgian tea.” She smiled at Mae.

Despite herself, Mae reached out and cupped her hands around the tea, drawing it close, inhaling.

“I have some bread and cheese, too.”

Laura cut them slices of homemade bread, then added
to the table creamy white cheese from the icebox below the counter, a plate of
tvorog
and a saucer of raspberry jam. “For your tea.”

Chet barely looked up as he inhaled the food. Now who was being rude? And to top it off, he made little sounds of enjoyment, “yums” and “wows.” Laura perched on a stool at the edge of the table, picking at a piece of cheese, grinning.

She had perfect white teeth.

“Your Georgian is very good,” Laura said to Chet. “I wonder, where did you learn it?”

Chet took another slice of bread. “School.”

“Hmm.”

Mae said nothing about Chet's lie. She should probably stop being surprised.

“How long have you lived in Georgia?” Mae asked, forcing herself to be polite.

“Nearly thirty years. I came here during college and fell in love. After my husband, Zura, died, I moved to our hunting cabin. It reminds me of him.”

She rubbed her hands together, a smile that wasn't for Mae on her face. “Your nephew and his bride reminded me of us. We were so in love…and then came the war.”

Chet stopped eating on the word
war.

Mae, however, had frozen on, “Bride? They're
married?
”

“Oh, I don't know. Not yet, probably, although the way they were together, I urged them not to wait.”

Chet cast Mae an
I-told-you-so
glance.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “The way they were together?”

“Clearly in love. Of course, I was ready to help them. I knew the language classes were just an excuse to be
together, outside the mission. But I could see true love in their eyes, in how he wanted to protect her. It was like looking back in time to Zura.”

“How long has he known her?” Chet asked, finishing off his tea.

“Only a couple of weeks, but when you meet the one, you know.” She nodded, raising an eyebrow at Mae.

The one. She couldn't look at Chet. He also kept his eyes away from her, although his mouth tightened in a dark line.

“Where did they go, Laura?” he asked quietly.

She pursed her lips. “You know, I try not to interfere with the ways here. Even if I don't agree, I hold my tongue. It's not my country. But I can't stand by and let her marry a man she doesn't love.”

Oh, no. “She told you about the Iranian.”

“It's barbaric.”

“About half the world still conducts arranged marriages, you know. Even in America,” said Chet.

Laura's eyes glittered. “I sent them to Turkey.”

“Turkey?” Mae barely comprehended the word. “Turkey, as in the
country
of Turkey?”

“Well, they have to get to Chiatura first and take the train. Ideally, they'd take a flight out of Batumi—our nearest city with an airport—but the train was the safest option. They left yesterday. They probably caught today's train. They'll be out of the country by tomorrow.”

“Turkey.” Chet ran a hand down his face. “If we can get to Khashuri, we can intercept them—”

“Intercept them?” Laura's hospitality vanished with her tone. “Why?”

“Because she's Akif Bashim's daughter,” Chet said quietly.

Laura paled, the name making an impact that Mae
couldn't feel. The older woman scrutinized Chet with a gaze, clearly contemplating something. Then she said, “Oh. My. You're
him.
”

Him?

Mae glanced at Chet, who had frozen. His hand touched hers under the table.

“I don't know—”

“Code name Pancho?”

Her eyes turned obsidian, her mouth a tight knot of what looked like fury.

Chet got up. “We have to go if we hope to intercept them.”

“You
are
him, aren't you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Chet pulled Mae up from her chair. “Thank you for the tea.”

Mae looked from Laura to Chet. “Wait—”

Laura caught Mae's hand. “You may find your nephew, but your boyfriend will never leave this country alive.”

“Now, Mae. We're leaving now.”

She shook out of his grip, rounding on Laura. “What isn't he telling me?” And the very fact that she had to ask this woman—that Laura knew more about Chet than Mae—burned a hole right through the center of her chest.

And through the last remnants of her hope that he'd ever really trust her.

Laura kept her eyes on Chet. “Pancho is the name of Georgia's number-one enemy. American. Six foot two. Dark hair, blue eyes. The leader who armed our country for a civil war. The one we're still fighting, by the way.” She yanked the scarf from her head. Along the side of her temple, an ugly rumpled red swath of skin parted
her hair. “I got this from a grenade as my husband and I tried to escape Gori. I survived.”

Mae stared at the hideous scar, unable to speak. She glanced at Chet. He stood hard-jawed, motionless, looking away, out the window.

Code name Pancho?

“You can't blame him for the actions of a nation,” Mae tried, hearing but not believing her own voice. Even on autopilot, she rose to defend her friends.

But really, he'd stopped being a friend about five minutes ago.

Who, in fact, was Chet Stryker? Enemy? Rescuer?

Victim. He turned toward her, shame in his eyes.

Laura raised a thin brow. “You can't blame a man for the actions of a nation? Really? Because Akif Bashim does. He's got a shoot-to-kill order out on Pancho, and a nice hefty price on Pancho's head, one that about half the country—no, make that the majority, thanks to the scars he left behind—would like to cash in on.”

“Are you done?” Chet snapped.

Mae had gone cold, right to her toes. Chet grabbed her by the arm. “Thanks again for the tea,” he growled, and hauled her out the door.

 

“A price. Did she say a
price?
”

“Just calm down.” At least Mae had decided to speak to him again. Chet should probably be happy for that fact.

Maybe.

Except that she'd buried her fingers in his upper arms as she held on to him, and it sort of hurt.

Along with her tone. “I
cannot
believe you left that little tidbit out. Not only are you in a country that gives you nightmares, but you are
wanted.
By a terrorist. Who
will pay money to have you killed! Did I leave anything out?”

“How about, I just wanted to protect you. I thought if you were worried about me, well, then you wouldn't focus on Josh. And I didn't want you to get upset.”

“Well, I'm unfocused and plenty worried. And upset. Wow, am I
upset.
How's that strategy working for you now?”