Page 28 of Rescuing You

He kept low, trying to make himself a smaller target.

Bullets whizzed by.

He shifted directions, shifted again as the guards followed, firing.

It was dark. And he was fast. Maybe he could disappear in the night. His shoes ate up the rocky soil, then hit vegetation. Meaning the river was…

There.

Dark ground interrupted by a wide black swath.

He holstered his gun. And jumped.

And flashed back to his childhood, leaping from the end of the dock at their family’s vacation home off the coast of Maine. His brothers’ voices. Mom shouting for them to be careful. Dad egging them on.

The salty water shockingly cold.

But Michael didn’t land in the frigid Atlantic.

He landed in warm bathwater. Filthy bathwater.

His feet hit the ground before he went under.

He ducked, dove, swam upstream—away from Baghdad, away from the closest town—keeping low enough that not even his pack would drag along the surface.

His pursuers would assume he’d go with the current.

Do the opposite of what they expect. Never be where you should be.

Always take them by surprise.

He’d almost done that tonight.

He should have shot the men holding the flashlights as soon as they got close. He’d hoped to get away without them confirming he was there.

He hadn’t wanted to kill anybody.

Stupid.

Stupid move.

He swam and swam. Underwater. Only surfacing long enough to pull in a breath.

He’d always been a fast swimmer. All those years by the water—and competition with his brothers—had guaranteed that.

After a few minutes, when he surfaced, he didn’t hear voices.

But he didn’t stop, just kept on.

What was that animated movie?

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.

And he did. For a long time.

Picturing the fish. He could hear the goofy voice in his head.

He shook off the strange thoughts. Where was his mind going? His strength?