Page 122 of Rescuing You

No, she couldn’t credit Michael with this, couldn’t let herself see him as her savior. She had a Savior. Maybe God had sent Michael, but He was behind this.

When this was over, she might lose Michael, but she would never lose God.

The boat bounced over a wave that had Leila and Jasmine lifting from their seats.

But they held on.

More waves. More bouncing. Finally, they were past the surf and motoring across the water toward lights.

Leaving behind Turkey, Iraq, and the men who’d pursued them.

And for a moment, for the first time since she’d been kidnapped off the street in Munich, despite the fear still churning within her, Leila felt free.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Michael aimed the raft toward Lesvos, trying not to think about the kiss that had calmed Leila enough that she let him put her in the boat.

It’d done the opposite to him. Probably a good thing he’d had to wade through cold water to get her settled.

Kiss or no kiss, the chasm yawned between them, and it would stay there until Jasmine decided to trust him—or Leila did.

Ticked him off that, after everything, they still didn’t. Especially Leila. Sure, Jasmine was her sister, but he’d risked his life to save Leila. He was still risking his life to save her—and her twin. Why couldn’t the woman he loved at least try to see the situation from his perspective? Was that too much to ask?

Cold seawater splashed him, not soothing the itchy thought. Images of his brothers came to mind. Daniel, Sam, Grant, Bryan, and Derrick. Five men he’d trust with his life.

And defend to the death.

So yeah, maybe he got it. He could cut her a little slack for defending her twin.

Would it kill her to reciprocate?

Though he hadn’t shared his assessment with Leila, the sea wasn’t calm tonight but choppy and angry. The raft’s engine was weak and sputtering, and the current fought them all the way. Michael kept a lookout for boats, fearing being seen by Greek authorities. A ship floated in the distance—a coast guard vessel, if his guess was correct. It was lit up like the town square at Christmastime, making it easy to avoid.

Michael had chosen a gray raft, not one of the bright yellow ones meant to be seen from a distance. They’d be hidden unless the vessel got close.

He couldn’t help but think about the refugees on similar boats just a few miles north. He’d seen enough photos and videos to know their trip across this stretch of water was very different from the one he, Leila, and Jasmine were taking. Smugglers would provide a raft made for ten, not three, but they’d cram it with twenty or thirty people. If the refugees managed to bring belongings, often those items would be thrown overboard during the journey in order to keep the raft afloat.

Treasured possessions tossed aside, worthless when faced with the possibility of death.

Some of the rafts provided by smugglers wouldn’t make it all the way. They’d leak. They’d sink.

Life jackets filled with newspaper only weighed precious souls down into the sea.

Engines petered out, leaving a boat full of refugees dead in the water.

If the Hellenic Coast Guard saw them, they’d push them back to Turkey, forcing the refugees to start all over.

For those who reached European soil, whether in Lesvos or elsewhere, a new trial would begin. They’d be herded into a refugee camp, where they’d wait, and wait, and wait—most for months, some for years—for visas that would allow them to settle in Greece or elsewhere in Europe.

In most cases, only the wealthy or at least the middle-class could come up with the money to escape their countries. Most of these once well-to-do people, by the time they reached their new adopted homelands, would have spent every penny they had. They’d have lost—or had stolen from them—all their worldly goods. And many would have lost loved ones along the way.

Some had lost so much that they regretted ever having left their homes.

Some never recovered.

Michael looked to the north, to those right now making their way to freedom. Protect them, Lord.

Protect us.