Читать книгу Secret Agent Minister - Lenora Worth, Rachel Hauck - Страница 7

Dev hated to bring Lydia out of the relative peace of her little fainting spell. But he had to, so he carried her to a big stone bench. “Lydia, wake up.” He held her in his arms, scoping the spot just as the little old lady they’d seen on the train came charging around the corner.

Obviously trying to focus, Lydia lifted her head and spotted the woman. And in her usual Lydia way, said, “How nice. She’s worried about us.” While Dev went into combat mode, Lydia sent the woman a reassuring smile. Then asked, “How long has that nice little lady been tailing us, anyway?”

“She’s not so very nice, and she really isn’t a lady at all,” Dev whispered. There she stood, glaring at Lydia and Dev through her bifocals. And she was packing more than just antacid and Advil.

Even in her stupor of confusion, Lydia seemed to figure things out. “That woman’s gun is much bigger than yours, Pastor Dev.”

“You can say that again.”

The woman aimed the gun right at Lydia and Dev. Then she spoke. “‘Will your riches, or all the mighty forces, keep you from distress?’”

“Job again,” Lydia murmured, her shock obviously bone deep. And it was about to get worse, Dev thought.

Everything after that was in fast-forward. Dev pushed Lydia down into the leaves and grass behind the bench, his hand on her back. “Stay down,” he hissed.

Since Lydia seemed paralyzed with fear, staying down wasn’t a problem. She cringed low as Dev managed to position himself behind the concrete back of the bench, trying to protect her with his body. But her head came up in spite of his best effort as she strained to peek at their assailant.

Then she gasped. Probably because she saw what Dev had already figured out. The old lady wasn’t actually a woman. She was a he. A wiry young man dressed like an old lady. And that man was trying to kill them. Shots clinked and pinged all around them, but Dev didn’t let that bother him. He kept Lydia’s head down, his body protecting hers, and kept himself out of the line of fire. While he waited for his chance.

Amazed and paralyzed with fear, Lydia watched him—but it was like a slow-motion dance of some sort, surreal and bizarre. He stood, then crouched forward, all the while firing that big-barreled gun at the enemy. One of the shots hit its mark. But Pastor Dev didn’t kill the VEP—the Very Bad Guys had been elevated in Lydia’s mind to Very Evil People. Pastor Dev shot the man in the leg, causing him to drop his weapon and roll around in agony. The wound must have hurt something awful from the way the man was screaming.

“Don’t worry, I just maimed him,” Pastor Dev explained, in a tone he might use to say, “Don’t you just love long walks in the woods, Lydia?”

“What if he tells someone about us?” Lydia asked as Pastor Dev sank back behind the bench.

“He won’t. Because then he’d have to explain his presence here. And he was never here. Neither were we.”

“Part of the cover?”

“Yes.”

Lydia put her hands over her head and closed her eyes, thinking of her nice little garage apartment back in Dixon. She loved that tiny apartment. It sat right over an old train depot that had been converted into a thriving antiques and collectibles minimall, complete with a country diner, both run by Lydia’s Aunt Mabel. She thought of the wonderful view of downtown Dixon—which encompassed about one square block. She thought of the great old live oak right outside her window, and the Carnegie Library and the Dixon Pharmacy and Soda Shoppe, safe, secure places with ready supplies of books, ice cream, hair spray and flavored lattes. What more could a girl ask for?

Right then, Lydia could have used a white chocolate mocha latte. She wanted so badly to be back in her four-poster bed with the frilly magnolia-embossed comforter and sheets, reading a good novel from the library, her beloved portrait of Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh in Gone With The Wind hanging on the long wall opposite her bed. Her cat Rhett would be curled up beside her on the bed, his one black patched eye contrasting sharply with his white face. Oh, how she wished to hold Rhett.

“Lydia, are you all right?”

She heard Pastor Dev’s words echoing across her mind, tugging her away from that peaceful, normal scene and back to the dark, scary not-so-normal woods. “I’m just dandy. Where’s that strange old woman?”

“She—he’s over there in the bushes, moaning.”

“Should we help him?”

“No. He won’t die. He’s trained to stop the bleeding.”

“That sure makes me feel better. What now? Will he try to follow us?”

“No. He’s injured. He’ll have to report back to his superiors that his mission has failed.”

“And just who does he work for? Surely not CHAIM?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? And that’s what our mission is all about. We have to find out who’s behind this and who sent him.”

“Do you have an idea?”

“I have a theory. But I have to get to a secure place before I can figure this out.”

They heard more moans, but Lydia didn’t feel as much empathy now for the old woman–possible killer.

“Not my problem,” she said, getting up to brush off her clothes. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Good idea.” Pastor Dev looked around, probably thinking there were others lurking in the shadows. Or maybe Lydia was the only one thinking about that possibility.

“We’ll cut through the woods until we reach the river,” Pastor Dev whispered. “Then we’ll find a way to get to our next destination.”

Lydia didn’t even know they were near a river, but a few miles later, sure enough she could hear a soft gurgling off in the distance. The Chattahoochee? Or maybe all that gurgling was coming from the bleeding man in the granny wig who was probably hobbling along after them.

“What will be our next destination?” she asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“New Orleans,” Pastor Dev said as he shoved her into the shadowy oaks and pines.

She gave him just enough time to get them hidden, then stopped. “I can’t go to New Orleans. My parents would have a royal hissy fit about that.”

“I’ll be with you,” Pastor Dev said in that condescending, I-know-best voice. “You’ll be safe.”

“Not in that city. My grandmother says the French Quarter’s a regular den of iniquity.”

Taking her by the hand, he stalked through the woods as if he knew exactly where he was going. “Not all of New Orleans is like that, Lydia, and besides, you don’t have any choice. Those are my instructions.”

“To get us to New Orleans?”

“Yes. We need to get out of Georgia.”

“Is the dwelling of light there—in New Orleans?”

He shook his head, then let out a sigh. “You are so smart.”

She refused to let flattery stop her. “Just answer me.”

“Yes—that’s a code for a safe house. Can you trust me?”

“You said I don’t have any choice.”

He gave her a long, steady look. One of his commando looks. “I’m sorry about that. Do you trust me?”

“I’m trying, Pastor Dev. But you have to admit this is all a bit new for me. You might need to give me a few minutes to adjust.”

“Okay. Take all the time you need. But remember, you have to listen to me and trust my decisions.”

“Okay.”

They walked along in silence for a few minutes. Lydia used the time to pout. She liked to be in control of any and all situations and right now she felt completely out of control. “Can I at least call my parents now?”

“They have been apprised of the situation.”

Lydia stopped again, then glanced over at him. “They have? Who did the apprising?”

“We have operatives everywhere. The situation has been explained in detail. Your parents know you’re safe and with me.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

In a lightning move, he tugged her close. Which, in spite of her pouting, did make her feel better. “You shouldn’t be here, Lydia,” he said, his gaze moving over her face.

That soft-spoken, regret-filled statement didn’t set well with Lydia, since she had always dreamed of being in his arms. But she understood what he meant. Actually, neither of them should be here—technically speaking.

Lydia shrugged. “I’m here now. No use crying over spilled milk.”

Then he started laughing. That didn’t help Lydia’s mood. She backed away from him, pushing her hands through her tangled hair. “You think that’s funny?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” He pulled her back into his arms.

“It’s just that…Lydia, you amaze me. You are so practical and pragmatic. Spilled milk.”

“Well, this is a big old puddle of a mess, don’t you agree?”

He probably could tell she was getting all worked up. He didn’t try to hug her again. Instead, he stopped laughing and let out a sigh. “That is correct. A big mess that I’ve somehow managed to get a nice girl like you involved in. Not only that, but one of the best men I know died tonight. Because of me.”

What could she say to that? She’d been so scared and confused, she hadn’t even stopped to think about his friend. She couldn’t resort to bickering and sarcasm after hearing the anguish in his words. Especially his next statement.

“This is all my fault.”

Since Pastor Dev walked on ahead, she had to follow him or risk getting left out in the Georgia woods with all the varmints and bugs and men in wigs. She caught up with him, but remained silent, sending up prayers for the soul of his friend. Lydia’s mother had always told her silence was golden. Since the woods were so dark and quiet, with only the moonlight and stars to guide them, she decided it was a good time to go to God in prayer about this whole bizarre situation.

Lydia worried as she prayed, not only about herself and her life, but also about Pastor Dev. He was right. He’d lost one of his best friends back in that hotel room. Now she reckoned he was grieving in a kind of delayed reaction way. And what about Reverend Pierson’s family? How was anyone going to explain this to them? What about the authorities back in Atlanta? Would they be hushed up, or would Lydia’s and Pastor Dev’s names and pictures be plastered all over the news? How would they ever get out of this?

She asked God all of these questions as they walked along, then she asked Him to show them the way. Lydia knew in her heart that Pastor Dev had to be telling her the truth, but she wondered how in the world such a good and decent man had become involved with killers and thugs. Then she reminded herself CHAIM was supposedly a Christian organization, meant to help those in need. And that would mean sometimes having to deal with dangerous, unscrupulous people.

He’s one of the good guys, Lydia, she reminded herself as she chanced a glance over at him. Remember that. Then she tried to imagine all the places he’d been, the horrible things he’d seen in his operative days. And he’d said he had to retire? What did that mean? Not, I retired, but I had to retire. There was a big difference in that particular wording. And just who wanted him dead?

He’d said he thought he knew who.

So she asked him. “Who’s behind this?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“But you think you know, right?”

“I’m pretty sure, yes.”

“Did you do something bad, for someone to want you dead?”

Dev didn’t speak for a while. Their feet crunched on leaves and twigs, each sound causing Lydia to walk closer to him. He grabbed her hand to keep her from tripping against his feet, since she was like a shadow right at his heels.

“I didn’t do anything bad,” he finally said. “I did do something that made some people very angry at me. But I had my reasons.”

“Such as?”

“I can’t explain it right now, Lydia. I’ve got people investigating things. It’s very complicated.” That was an understatement. He didn’t know where to begin.

“Yeah, well, it would have been nice to be forewarned about…your past life. I’ve known you for a while now, and I never would have guessed—”

“That’s how CHAIM wants things. We’re trained to fit right in, wherever we go. Sometimes, we fit in too well.”

“You can say that again. Are you even a real preacher?”

He looked over at her, masking the piercing hurt her doubt brought. “Of course I am. I attended seminary in New Orleans. I trained to be a minister. I just got sidetracked for a while.” Then he shook his head. “No, that’s not exactly correct. Being in CHAIM taught me more about being a Christian than anything else, even preaching.”

“I guess so, what with all the deception and intrigue. I’m sure that comes in handy each Sunday when you’re quoting the Gospels to all the good, decent folks back in Dixon.”

“I know you’re confused and angry,” he said, taking her hand again. “But my experiences in CHAIM have helped me with my messages each Sunday. My past life has taught me compassion, and understanding and unconditional love.” Then he squeezed her hand tight. “Lydia, I can’t bear you being angry at me. But I certainly don’t blame you.” He let out a long sigh, his hands dropping to his side. This wasn’t going to be easy, not with Lydia. She was too innocent for this. “If I’ve lost your respect, then I truly am lost.”

That comment shut her up, good and proper. But she glowed in her silence, and she didn’t exactly feel like pouting anymore. He wanted her respect above all else? Did that even hint at any type of feelings he might have for her, other than those of friend and coworker and fellow Christian?

Lydia swallowed hard, prayed for guidance, then said, “You did have my respect, and you still do. I just wish I’d had your trust so you could have told me about all of this.”

He pushed a hand over his face. “It’s not a matter of trust. CHAIM doesn’t allow us to give out information. We tell no one. We don’t share the details of our jobs. That would put too many people in danger. And I think someone has done exactly that—given our identities and our locations away. There are people all over the world who’d like to see all of the CHAIM operatives dead.”

“Starting with you?”

“It looks that way, yes.”

“But now that I know about CHAIM, can’t you give me a few more hints? I need to be prepared for the worst.”

He heaved them both up an embankment, then stopped to take in the lay of the land while Lydia stopped to marvel at his strength—not just his outer physical strength, but an inner core that now radiated around him and made him seem powerful and heroic in her eyes. And made her wonder, yet again, just how many secrets he was carrying.

Too tired to figure all that out, Lydia concentrated on their surroundings. The woods were shrouded in a blanket of gray moonlight, the river glistened like a silver necklace. She could hear the rustling of forest creatures off in the distance. At least, she hoped it was forest creatures and not humans dressed in disguise, coming for them.

Since he just stood there like a good-looking block of stone, she reminded Pastor Dev again. “I need to understand. I like details, I like to be organized and prepared. So I need to know everything, just in case.”

He got moving then, his boots stomping through the underbrush. “No, you don’t. You just need to do exactly as I say, for your own protection and safety.”

She hurried to catch him, then stopped to stare at his retreating back. “Will you ever tell me all of it? I mean, why we’re really being chased and what you did to cause this?”

“Probably not. You’re better off not knowing.”

And that’s the only answer she got. He refused to give her the details—for her own protection, of course. Lydia was getting mighty tired of being kept in the dark for her own protection. But then, what choice did she have? Right now, she could only follow the man she loved as they marched blindly along.

So she stomped after him in her sensible pumps, so very glad that he at least thought she was amazing, practical and pragmatic. The compliments couldn’t get much better. The man might be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but he didn’t have a clue as to a woman’s heart. Not one clue.

Lydia didn’t know where she was going to wind up after this. Right now, she just had to find a way to survive New Orleans. If they ever got there. But after what happened when they did get there, Lydia would have rather stayed hidden in the woods of North Georgia.