Читать книгу Stranger In The Night - Catherine Palmer, Catherine Palmer - Страница 9

L iz locked her purse inside the drawer under her desk and switched on the computer. She was tired. Too tired to be at work this early in the morning. But the day wouldn’t wait.

Before meeting a Somali family at the airport at ten, she had to fill out status reports on two groups of Burmese immigrants brought in by Refugee Hope. They had landed in St. Louis the week before. Ragged, little more than skin and bones, they had stared at her with gaunt faces and milky eyes. At the sight of an energetic white woman with a mass of brunette curls, the children clung to each other. Their parents couldn’t quite muster a smile at having finally arrived in America, the land of their dreams.

With a sigh, Liz shook her head.

“Incoming!” Her closest friend at the agency breezed past the small cubicle. Molly stuck a thumb behind her to indicate the cluster of people headed Liz’s way. “They’re all yours!”

Molly loved mornings.

Liz groaned and reached for her flask of hot tea. Before work, she always steeped a pot of the strongest black tea on the market. The first cup opened her eyes. The second turned on her brain. With the third, she usually had the gumption to say—

“No.” Holding up a palm, Liz rose from her chair before the newcomers could step into her cubicle. “I don’t know who sent you here, but you have the wrong office.”

“No?” A tall man with close-cropped brown hair stepped around the collection of bewildered Africans. His dark eyebrows narrowed. “Did you say no?”

“I’m sorry, but this is not one of my families.” She met his blue eyes. Deep navy with white flecks, they stared straight into her.

Why hadn’t she started that third cup on the drive to work?

“I know my own people,” she informed him. “This group doesn’t belong to me. If you’ll go back to the front office—”

“The front office sent us to you.” Gaze unwavering, he stuck out a hand. “Sergeant Joshua Duff, U. S. Marine Corps. And you are?”

“Liz.” She grasped the hand. His warm fingers curled around her palm, crushing her knuckles together. She caught her breath. “Liz Wallace.”

“A Scot. I’m Irish.”

“American, actually.” She pulled her hand away and stuck it in the pocket of her slacks. “So, Semper Fi and all that. I appreciate the interest you’ve taken in these people, Sergeant, but Refugee Hope is accountable only for the families we relocate. If you’re responsible for this group, you’ll have to—”

“Semper Fi and all that?” He leaned forward, as if he weren’t sure he heard her correctly.

Oh, great, Liz thought. She picked up her flask, unscrewed the lid and poured the third cup. Praying he couldn’t see her hand trembling, she lifted the mug to her lips. The tea slid down her throat.

This was not what she needed a few minutes after eight in the morning. Not an overwhelming, overbearing, overly handsome sergeant with a death grip. And certainly not a pair of striking blue eyes that never seemed to blink.

“Sergeant Duff.” She found a smile and hoped it looked sincere. “Please forgive my lack of courtesy. I have a large number of families in my caseload. An overwhelming number. This group isn’t among them.”

With effort, she dragged her focus from the man’s sculpted cheekbones and clean-shaven square jaw. The group huddled under his protection shrank into each other as she assessed them. A man, midforties, she guessed. His wife, hard to tell her age behind those big glasses, clearly traumatized. Two children. The girl, about seven, needing new clothes. The boy, probably five, missing several front teeth.

“This is Reverend Stephen Rudi,” Sergeant Duff said, clamping his big hand on the man’s shoulder. “His wife, Mary. Their children, Charity and Virtue. They’re from Paganda.”

Paganda. Images flashed into Liz’s mind. Photographs she’d seen. Villages burning. Mass graves. Boy soldiers toting machine guns. She thought of the people she had met in Congo. They spoke of Paganda in hushed tones. Even worse than most places, they said. Genocide. A bloodbath.

Liz shuddered and sized up the little family more closely. Who knew what these people had endured? Too often these days, she caught herself regarding the refugees as line items on one of her many lists. Family from Burundi: mother, father, eight children. Family from Bosnia: mother, her brother, four children. Family from Ivory Coast: mother (pregnant), father, six children.

When had they ceased to be human beings?

“Reverend Rudi, good morning.” Liz offered her welcome in the African way—right hand extended, left hand placed on the opposite arm near the crook of the elbow. A demonstration of honor, as if to say, “I will not greet you with one hand and stab you with the other.”

The man stepped forward, shook her hand and made a little bow. “Good morning, madam. Thank you very much for your time. My family is in great need of assistance.”

How often had she heard these words, Liz wondered. The need was a pit, bottomless and gaping. A hungry mouth, never sated.

“Which agency brought you to St. Louis?” she asked him. It was a relief to turn her attention from Sergeant Duff. Like a male lion poised to spring, the man didn’t budge. His presence filled the cubicle with a sort of expectant energy Liz could hardly ignore.

Reverend Rudi’s voice was strained but warm, carrying familiar ministerial overtones. “Madam, Global Care brought my family from a refugee camp in Kenya. We traveled by airplane from Nairobi to Atlanta. My wife’s brother invited us to St. Louis.”

“Global Care doesn’t have an office here,” Duff inserted. “The Rudis will need your help.”

Liz returned her focus to his face. The man had moved closer to her desk now, his fingertips touching her stack of files, his shoulder tilted in her direction.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. As I said before, if Refugee Hope didn’t bring this family to the States, we won’t be able to provide assistance. The Rudis need to contact Global Care in Atlanta and make arrangements.”

“But as you see, they’re here now. So what can you do for them?”

“Nothing. I’m authorized to work only with my families. Those brought in by Refugee Hope.”

“So transfer them.”

She studied the blue eyes. He really did expect her to obey. He thought she would capitulate right on the spot. The man was used to giving orders, and to having them followed.

Liz had never done well with authority figures. She simply didn’t buckle.

“If Global Care wants to make provisions for this family,” she informed him, “you will need to speak to someone at their headquarters in Atlanta. Refugee Hope is based in Washington, D. C. St. Louis is a resettlement point. We follow our agency’s rules.”

Joshua Duff straightened. His eyes narrowed. Then he turned to the family. “Pastor Stephen, how about you go find a snack machine and get the kids something to eat.”

He fished a wallet from his pocket. Liz tried not to gawk at an accordion of cash that unfolded when he opened it. He removed several bills and held them out. The African minister took the money with some reluctance. Duff misunderstood.

“Snack machine.” He motioned as if he were pushing buttons with his index finger. “Food. Candy bars. Crackers.”

With a nod, Reverend Rudi shepherded his little flock out of the cubicle. The moment they were out of sight, Duff leaned into her desk.

“Listen, ma’am, I came across this family last night. I agreed to help them. You work for a refugee agency, right? These are refugees. So do your job.”

Liz stepped around her desk. “This is not the Marine Corps, Sergeant. But we do have a protocol and you’re asking me to violate it. I will not do that.”

The dark eyebrows lifted. “All right, I understand. So, what do we have to do to make this happen?”

“I’ve told you. Call Global Care and turn the family over to them.”

“And where is that pitiful bunch supposed to go while the agency figures out what to do with them?”

“You could put them on a bus and send them back to Atlanta.”

“They don’t want to live in Atlanta. They want to stay here and look for the lady’s brother.” He set one hip on her desk, bringing himself down to her eye level. “Ms. Wallace, you wouldn’t be working for this agency if you didn’t have compassion. These folks need a place to stay, decent jobs, a way to get around. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Why don’t you just help them out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Why don’t you? ”

“Because I live in Texas.”

He looked away, the muscle in his jaw flickering. Liz could see the man was struggling for control. Good. She had a full day of work ahead, and she didn’t like being pushed around.

In a moment, he faced her again. “Look, I’ve just spent seven months hunting insurgents in the Afghan mountains. My third deployment. I’m tired. My patience—never a strong suit—is wearing real thin right now. I came to St. Louis to visit a friend for a couple of days, and this morning he sent me out on a little mercy mission on behalf of Reverend Rudi and his family. Now, they’re nice folks, and they’ve been through an ordeal worse than most. I believe you know exactly how to arrange a happy American life for them, ma’am. Am I wrong about that?”

“I know how to resettle refugees, yes. But as I said, I’m not allowed to work with families who aren’t on my list. If you’re so worried, you help them. It’s time-consuming but not all that complicated. I’ll tell you what to do step by step. How does that sound?”

He bent his head and chuckled. “Well, well, well. You know something, Liz Wallace? You’re more trouble than a couple of Pashtuns haggling over the price of a camel. I can handle them. I can track a sniper across five miles of bare rock. I can even talk a sheikh into turning loose a few goats to feed some hungry beggars. But I can’t seem to get a social worker to help a family of refugees. Did I catch you on a bad day, or are you always this mean?”

Liz rolled her eyes. “Move. You’ve got your Duff on my files, Sergeant.”

With a laugh of disbelief, he stood. Liz scooped up her paperwork and flipped open the first file.

“You see this family?” she said, covering the name with her thumb. The photographs of four Somalis were lined up along one side. They looked like criminals posing for mug shots.

“This mother was raped by guerrilla soldiers. Seven of them. In front of her husband and children. They killed the father, the baby and the other two youngest of her five kids. Chopped them up with machetes. They took the oldest girl, raped her, tied her legs and arms together and then threw her into the back of their truck. They took the oldest boy as a slave. Then they drove away.”

She paused and glanced at Duff. His grim expression told Liz she was getting through.

“The mother never saw her children again,” she continued. “She was left with one daughter, a thirteen-year-old who had been fetching water from a stream when the rebels attacked. This woman and her daughter walked more than a hundred miles across the Somali desert into Kenya. They lived in a mud hut inside a United Nations refugee camp for five years. They ate gruel and got water from a spigot that served twenty other families. Both gave birth to sons. This mother, her daughter, son and grandson are here now. In St. Louis. Are you with me, Sergeant?”

“All the way.”

“Shall I continue?”

“Go ahead.” His face had grown solemn, but his eyes were not focused on the photographs. He was looking at Liz.

Disconcerted, she closed the file and set it back on her desk before speaking again.

“Two weeks ago, I greeted this woman and her family at the airport, Sergeant Duff. I took them to a run-down apartment in a high-rise not far from here. Refugee Hope has prepaid their rent for three months. Within those three months, it’s my job to make sure this mother learns how to use public transportation, goes to English language classes and attends job training. I have three months to enroll the daughter in a school where no one speaks her language and yet see that she’s able to cope. Three months to ensure that the two babies are brought back to health and provided with adequate day care. I have three months’ worth of funds with which to buy food and clothing. If this family isn’t successfully working, attending school, living independently and eating with proper nutrition in three months, I haven’t done my duty, Sergeant Duff. They’ll be cut loose from Refugee Hope, and no one will follow me to pick up the pieces.”

She looked into his eyes. The bluster was gone, and in its place, she saw a deep sympathy. A warmth. So unexpected she felt her heart stumble.

“How many families do you have, ma’am?”

“Twenty-three current groups. If I don’t get some work done at my desk this morning, I’ll be late to pick up family number twenty-four at Lambert. And you can call me Liz.”

“Liz.” He was silent for a moment. “I live in Amarillo, Liz. That’s a long way off.”

“But see, the Rudi family is here now.” She repeated what he had said to her earlier. “So what can you do for them?”

“You’re good. You’ve trapped me.”

“I can’t track a sniper over bare rock, but I’m not stupid. You wouldn’t have brought those people here if you didn’t have a compassionate streak. We’re alike in that way. Let me tell you how to help them, Sergeant.”

“You can call me Joshua.”

“You’ll enjoy lending a hand, Joshua. Lots more fun than dealing with squabbling sheikhs.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but the return of Reverend Rudi and his family silenced the Marine.

Charity and Virtue, it became evident, had discovered Cheetos. Their lips and fingers coated with orange dust, the two children sidled into the cubicle. Liz struggled not to laugh and scoop them up into her arms, as she so often did with the precious little ones who came under her wings of care. But she couldn’t afford to melt. Not now.

Sergeant Duff needed to take responsibility for this family. His wad of cash would surely buy bus tickets back to Atlanta. He was a good man, kind and concerned. But he had just returned from the war, and his home was in Texas. The last thing he would want to do was take on a group of Pagandans.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked, hunkering down in front of Virtue. “Let me see those fingers, kiddo.”

The child glanced up at his father. Pastor Stephen said something in their native tongue, and Virtue held out his hands. When he noticed his orange fingers, the boy gasped and then burst into a gale of giggles. His sister looked at her hands and started laughing, too.

“Cheetos,” Duff informed the pair. “Puffed or fried, can’t beat ’em. My favorite.”

He rubbed his stomach and made smacking sounds. The kids joined in, rubbing and smacking, clearly enjoying a moment of silliness in the midst of such a solemn day. Pastor Stephen held up the empty cellophane bag.

“The food is very…pink,” he told Liz. “Pardon me…orange. Yes, orange. Can it be washed?”

“Certainly,” she told him. “There’s a bathroom down the hall. You can stop by on your way out. I believe Sergeant Duff is going to help you contact Global Care and make sure you’re safely on your way back to Atlanta.”

“Am I?” Joshua stood, again filling the cubicle in a manner that seemed to dwarf everyone else in the tiny space. “I don’t remember telling you that, Ms. Wallace.”

“Liz. And I told you I couldn’t help them.”

“But you said you’d help me. You’ll tell me the steps, and I’ll settle the family here. Right?”

She couldn’t believe she had heard the man correctly. People didn’t do this. Volunteers might take a few hours out of their lives to assist refugees. A church might adopt a family or two. But no one dropped everything. No one single person simply gave up the weeks and months it took to acclimate an entire group. Liz was paid, and even she had to rely on other aid workers and volunteer helpers.

“You told me you live in Texas,” she said.

“Texas can wait. I’ll stick around here for a while.” He set his large palm on Virtue’s round head. “We’ll go to the airport with you and meet family number twenty-four. You can explain your system to me on the way.”

Liz bent her head and rubbed her eyes. This was absolutely not the way her morning should go. She had files to sort. Forms to fill out. A plane to meet. Clothing and food to deliver. A refugee patient to visit in the hospital. She did not need a U. S. Marine and four Pagandans following her around like a flock of lost sheep.

Unable to bring herself to speak, she held up her hand. Instantly, Joshua’s fingers closed around hers. As she lifted her head, he tucked her hand under his arm, splaying her fingers against his biceps.

“I don’t want to hear your favorite word, Liz,” he murmured, leaning close. “ No isn’t good. Yes is much better. Say yes to the Rudi family, Liz. If you say it, I will, too. And then we’ll make a difference together.”

Everything inside Liz begged to differ. But how could she keep arguing? The man refused to hear any of her very plausible reasons why his scenario wouldn’t work.

“Fine,” she said, pulling her hand from the warm crook of his elbow. “Step one. Take the Rudi family back where you found them. Make sure they have a decent place to live with running water, flushing toilets and enough beds. Drive them to the grocery store and buy a week’s supply of staples and a few perishables. Then go to a thrift shop and see if you can find several outfits for each person. And look for coats. Winter’s coming.”

She picked up a couple of business cards and handed one to Joshua and the other to Pastor Stephen. “Here’s my number. Call me if you need me.”

Before either man could protest, Liz pushed past Joshua and headed for Molly’s cubicle, leaving the five wayfarers standing inside her own. If this was going to be a good day, she needed fortification. Her best friend would be happy to accompany her to the coffee shop down the street for a couple of lattes.

A few hours later, Joshua pulled his Cadillac into a parking space in front of the large brick edifice and switched off the engine. He knew he shouldn’t do this. If he were at all smart, right this moment he’d be on his way back to Amarillo. After a couple of easy days on the road, he would drive out to the ranch. As a matter of fact, nothing would feel better than to strip off his jeans and T-shirt, dive into the Texas-shaped pool and swim a few laps.

No doubt Magdalena would put on the dog for him—enchiladas, chile rellenos, carne adovada, homemade tortillas and a big serving of flan for dessert. The cook had been with the Duff family for years, almost a second mother to Joshua and his four brothers. During each of his deployments, she faithfully e-mailed him once a week to let him know the menu of every meal he had missed. Exquisite torture.

After Magdalena’s home-cooked dinner, he would sleep well in his big, clean, nonsandy bed. Then the following day…

As always, Joshua’s thoughts came to a screeching halt at the idea of driving into town and stepping into the Duff-Flannigan Oil building. He could almost hear his boots squeaking down the long waxed hallway. His voice would echo as he greeted his father. The large corner office would still be waiting—as it had all these years.

Business. The oil business. That’s what we do, son. It’s a Duff thing. Your daddy did it. Your grandpas did it—both sides. And your great-grandpas. That’s why we sent you off to college to get that petroleum engineering degree. You’d be doing it right now if 9/11 hadn’t happened and made you want to serve your country. We’re proud that you did, but now it’s time to take your place here. Your big brother will be CEO one day. You’re our president of field operations. Duff-Flannigan Oil is counting on you.

Hadn’t Joshua just been fighting a war some said was based on a gluttonous thirst for foreign oil? Or had it been about terrorists and the need to quash insurgent cells? Was it about politics—or changing people’s lives for the better? Things could get confusing up in the high arid desert of Afghanistan.

There.

The object of Joshua’s latest quest pushed open the door of Refugee Hope and stepped out onto the sidewalk. At the sight of Ms. Liz Wallace, something slid right down his spine and settled into the base of his stomach. And this was why he should be headed for Texas.

Sam was right about his friend. Joshua had been too long without a woman. He needed to get home, find a couple of pretty gals, and…

What? He hardly knew how to go on an old-fashioned date anymore. Did people even do that these days?

He was thirty. Thirty and battle weary. And Liz Wallace looked so good he had almost dropped to his knees the moment he laid eyes on her.

Instead, he had bullied his way into her office and annoyed her to the point that she ran him off. Worse, he had hog-tied himself to the Rudi family. Not only did he feel obligated to help the dignified Reverend Stephen and his traumatized little wife, but Joshua was positively smitten with Charity and Virtue.

Sighing, he unlatched his door and pushed it open. Liz glanced his way. Her face…for an unguarded moment…said exactly what he needed to know. She had felt it, too. That something. A palpable pull. The irresistible beckoning toward what was probably a huge mistake.

“Liz.” He called her name as she approached on the sidewalk. “Thought you’d take me up on my offer to drive you to the airport. Get a little more information from you about how to manage my new best friends.”

She swallowed. Her brown eyes went depthless for a moment as she met his gaze. Then she focused on his car. “Too small. I’m bringing back a family of five. Thanks, but I always take the agency van to the airport.”

“Good. Where’s it parked?”

“Listen, I appreciate your interest in refugees, Sergeant.”

“Joshua.”

“I don’t need your help picking up this family, and I can’t take the time to explain our system to you right now. It’s very complicated. I have a lot on my mind.”

“I’ll drive while you think.” He imitated her frown. “You’re not going to use your favorite word again are you, Liz?”

Letting out a breath, she shrugged. “Oh, come on, then. But I’ll do the driving. Agency policy.”

“You sure? You look tired.”

“Thanks.”

“Beautiful but tired.”

At the expression of surprise on her face, Joshua mentally chastised himself. Bad form, Duff. You don’t tell a woman she’s beautiful right off the bat.

On the other hand, Liz Wallace was gorgeous. Slim and not too tall, she had the sort of understated figure he liked. Nothing demure about that hair, though. Big, glossy brown curls crowned her head, settled onto her shoulders and trickled down her back. Her skin was pale, almost milky. Those melted-chocolate eyes stirred something deep inside him. But it was her lips that drew his focus every time she spoke.

“We have twenty minutes to make it to the airport.” She pushed back her hair as they approached a mammoth white van sprinkled with rust spots. “When we get there, we’ll be going to the area where international flights arrive.”

“Been through those gates a few times myself.” He smiled as yet another look of surprise crossed Liz’s face.

“I’ve seen the Army grunts at Lambert,” she said. “In and out of Fort Leonard Wood for basic training. I didn’t think the Marine Corps used the airport.”

“You might be surprised at what Marines do.”

She opened the van’s door and with some effort clambered into the driver’s seat. Joshua had all he could do to keep from picking her up and depositing her in place. But he knew better than to manhandle Liz Wallace. She might be small and delicate, but the woman had a razor-sharp streak he didn’t want to mess around with.

“I’ve flown out of Lambert, too,” she said as Joshua settled into the passenger’s seat. Starting the engine, she added, “I left the international area on my way to the DRC.”

At that, she glanced his way. The slightest smirk tilted those sumptuous lips. Clearly this was a test she hoped he would fail. A little global one-upmanship.

He fastened his seat belt and tried to relax. It wasn’t easy. Liz had on a khaki skirt that had seemed more than modest in the agency building. But in the van, it formed to the curve of her hip and revealed just enough leg to mesmerize him. He slipped his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.

Concentrate on the conversation, Duff.

“So, did you land in Kinshasa?” he asked. “Or maybe you were headed for the eastern part of the country. A lot of people fly into Kampala and travel across the border from there, don’t they?”

She laughed easily. “Okay, you’ve been around. My group landed in Kinshasa. Have you ever visited Congo?”

“You mean the DRC?” He returned her smirk. “Nah. North Africa mostly. How’d you like it?”

“Interesting. It changed me. I’m planning to spend the rest of my life working with refugees in Africa.”

“Africa?” He frowned at the thought of settlements plagued with disease, hunger, violence. “You’re doing a good thing right here, Liz.”

“The people who make it to St. Louis are the lucky ones. All I do is mop up. Try to repair what’s already been broken. I’d prefer to go into the UN camps where I can really make a difference.”

“You’re making a difference now.”

The brown eyes slid his way for an instant. “How do you know?”

“I saw what you do.”

“Not what I want to do. My job is too much about lists and quotas. It’s all red tape and documents and files.”

“It’s people.”

“It was once. In the beginning, I thought I was really helping. But there are so many people, and the needs are overwhelming. I don’t speak anyone’s language well enough to communicate the important things I want to say.”

“What is it you want to say?”

Again she glanced at him. “Were you an interrogator?”

“Tracker.” That left out a lot, but he didn’t want to drag his military service into the open. “I did a little interviewing.”

She nodded, her attention on the traffic again. “What I want to say is…meaningful things. But I can’t. My Swahili is horrible. I’m doing well to meet my refugees’ basic needs. I don’t have time to follow through with schools to make sure the kids are adjusting. I can’t teach the mothers how to provide good nutrition. Most don’t know the simplest things about life here.”

“Like what?”

“That eggs and milk go in the refrigerator. How to use hangers in a closet. Where to put a lamp. How to microwave popcorn or make brownies from a mix. What to do with credit card offers that pour in through the mail. A lot of them don’t realize children need to wear shoes in America. Especially in the winter. But it goes beyond that.”

Joshua held his breath as she swung the van into four-lane traffic. Interstate 70 at midmorning was a free-flowing river of passenger cars and 18-wheelers. The van nestled in behind a semi, then darted out to take a spot vacated by a cab. Liz drove as he did, fearlessly. Maybe recklessly.

“I don’t know the subtext,” she was saying. “So many people groups come through Refugee Hope, and I’ve only learned a few things. Each culture is different. If I were to ask about your family in Texas, you’d give me the names of your closest relatives, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course you would. But a Somali would recite twenty generations back to the name of his clan father. In Somalia, men and women don’t touch each other in greeting. Elders—even total strangers—are addressed as aunt or uncle. And babies aren’t diapered. Now, that’s been interesting in St. Louis.”

“I’ll bet.”

“The Burmese—people from Myanmar—have complicated customs that involve naming a baby by the day of the week he’s born on, and his age and gender. And the name changes according to who’s talking to them. In Somalia, it’s polite to give gifts to a mother before her baby is born, like in the U. S. But you’d never do that in Burma. It would bring misfortune on the child. And you don’t give scissors or knives or anything black—to anyone. Trust and honesty are important to the Burmese. Inconsistency and vagueness are considered good manners in Somalia. It’s a positive thing to be crafty, even sly and devious.”

“The tip of the cultural iceberg.”

“A society’s rules are subtle. You were where? Afghanistan? I’m sure you learned their ways.”

“Oh, yeah.” He leaned back in the seat and verbally checked off some of the idiosyncrasies he’d been taught. “The people may seem to be standing too close, but don’t step back. It’s their way. Men walk arm in arm or hold hands—it means they’re friends and nothing more. Never point with one finger. Greet male friends with a handshake and a pat on the back. Belch in appreciation of a good meal. Never drink alcohol or eat pork in front of an Afghan. Don’t wink, blow your nose in public, eat with your left hand or sit with the soles of your feet showing.”

“Well done, Sergeant Duff,” she said. “Then you know that until you begin to understand people, you can’t help them much.”

“And you’re all about helping.”

She pulled the van into a space in the short-term parking area at Lambert. “So are you, Sergeant. We’ve just chosen different ways to go about it.”

Before he could unbuckle his seat belt, Liz hopped out of the van and started for the terminal. Joshua had never considered tracking insurgents a mercy mission. He was a huntsman. A sniper. A warrior who set out on a mission and didn’t stop until he’d accomplished it.

Watching Liz stride purposefully through the sliding-glass door, Joshua realized she might be right about him. Maybe they had more in common than he knew.