Page 55 of Rescuing You

There was nothing left to do but wait.

Well, maybe one more thing.

He cleared his throat. “Would you mind if I pray for us?”

Leila looked up from her seat on the couch, big eyes blinking. “Yes, that would be…good.”

Jasmine dropped the protein bar—still unopened—on the counter and joined them in the living room.

He stood and held out his hands. He and Leila had prayed together over meals. They’d attended church together a few times and joined in corporate prayer, but this was different.

He had no idea if Jasmine was a Christian or a Muslim or if she believed anything at all. So it felt a little awkward, but if Michael had learned anything in the years he’d been with the CIA, he’d learned that things went wrong with even the most perfectly planned missions. Most of his teammates would say they needed luck on their side. Michael didn’t believe in luck. He believed in God.

Leila slid her hand into his left one, Jasmine his right. They closed the circle and then looked at him.

“Father,” he said, “Your word tells us that You go before us, walk beside us, and rejoice over us. You are our Rear Guard and the Rock beneath our feet. That means we’re surrounded by You, by Your love and protection. Lead us on every step of this journey. Hide us from our enemies and deliver us from evil. Take us out of Iraq, through Turkey, and to safety in Your time, on Your path, as only You can.”

Yes. God was the one in control. Not Michael.

He would work very hard to remember that and let God keep ahold of the reins.

In the silence, Leila prayed, “Please heal my sister and let her not get sick on this journey.”

And then Jasmine added, “Thank You for bringing Michael to us and for bringing us this far. Please, protect us all.”

“And protect Splat,” Michael added. “Let no harm come to him or anyone who aids us.” When he could think of nothing else to add, he said, “In Jesus’s name, amen.”

“Amen.” Leila squeezed his hand, looking up at him with an expression that made his heart thump.

He really liked this woman. Oh, who was he kidding? He’d risked his life—and his career—to save her. He didn’t think like covered it.

He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her lips.

Jasmine stepped back. “You two go ahead and kiss.” Her accented words were heavy with sarcasm. “Do not worry about me.”

“Sorry,” Michael said, but she was grinning.

The low knock—two quick raps—had them turning toward the door.

Walking that way, Michael waited for three more, which would confirm who was on the other side. When they came, he opened up.

Owing to his Guatemalan roots, Alanzo Gonzales, aka Splat, had dark skin, black eyes, and black hair. When Michael had first met him at the Farm, he’d looked like all the other agents in the specialized training school. Today, he had a thick beard and bushier eyebrows than Michael remembered beneath the keffiyeh wrapped on his head. He pushed a dolly stacked with boxes inside, then closed the door.

Michael wrapped him in a hug. “Long time, man. Thanks for doing this.”

Splat slapped his back. “Anytime.”

Michael indicated the women. “Meet Leila and Jasmine.”

Splat shook their hands, lingering a little too long, then gave Michael a look over his shoulder. “Now I understand why you risked⁠—”

“What’s with the boxes?” Michael gave him a pointed look. Splat no doubt knew that Michael was persona non grata with the CIA, but there was no reason for Leila to know.

“Pretty simple,” he said. “We’re moving furniture.” He unloaded the boxes, opened the tallest, and took pieces of wood out. One-by-fours, two-by-fours, and plywood lined with padding.

Michael had a bad feeling about that padding.

While the women looked on, he helped Splat build crates. One was the size of a small wardrobe, not quite as tall as Michael, with a layer of polished mahogany, complete with gold trim, that ran beneath the crate. Meaning, if anybody pried up a side, they’d see furniture, never knowing, God willing, that anything—or anyone—hid behind that false front.