Covert Cargo. Elisabeth Rees
God made us as individuals, but that doesn’t mean He intended us to be alone.”
The teasing tone disappeared from her voice. “I don’t know what God intends for me, but right now I’m happy alone.”
He knew this wasn’t true. He knew it was an act, perfected in order to push people away and bolster her lack of confidence. But if that was her choice, he wouldn’t push the matter.
“If you’re happy to put your faith in God’s path,” he said, “then you can’t go wrong.”
She smiled, and the way she tilted her head to brush hair from her neck reminded him of Aziza. It was just a flash of something, a split second of familiarity that transported him back four years to a hot and arid plain in Afghanistan. At that time, he was driving along a dusty road to Kabul with a young woman escaping certain death. And now he was back in the same situation, forced to choose which innocent lives to save. As soon as Tyler arrived, he would relinquish Beth’s safety to his good friend and fellow SEAL. Then he could get back to work.
As the truck neared Beth’s home, Dillon saw that the fog surrounding it appeared thicker than before, curling around the tower like smoke. When an acrid smell began filling his nostrils, he realized that it was smoke.
“I think we may have a problem,” he said, hitting the gas pedal hard to pick up speed.
Beth placed her hands on the dash, leaning forward and letting her mouth drop open in confusion and disbelief.
“My cottage,” she exclaimed. “It’s on fire!”
Beth kept her hands on the dash of the truck as Dillon sped to her home.
He handed her his cell. “Call 9-1-1.”
She fumbled with the phone, barely able to form her words in coherent sentences. How could this day be any worse? It was like all her most terrible nightmares rolled into one. She managed to give her details to the operator, all the while watching her lighthouse come into clearer view. A pungent smell of burning wood invaded her nostrils, and as soon as the truck skidded to a stop on the graveled parking area, she flung herself from the passenger seat and started to run to the cottage. The front door of the keeper’s cottage was fiercely ablaze and smoke was eddying around the tower, rising and falling with the wind. Yet the windows were intact, with no smoke leaking through—this meant she might be able to save the contents inside. Her entire life was in the cottage, including all the handcrafted furniture she had spent hundreds of painstaking hours making.
She felt a strong arm curl around her waist and pull her back. It was Dillon.
“Stay back,” he ordered. “I’ll try and stop the flames from spreading.”
She felt helpless as she watched him pick up one of the buckets she kept by the front door for retrieving small pieces of wood from the beach. The buckets had filled with rain overnight and he threw the water at the door, dousing the flames as best he could. She noticed that the door had almost burned away and she could see right through into her living room.
“It looks like somebody dumped a bunch of trash by your front door and used gasoline as an accelerant to set the whole house on fire,” he shouted. “The fire’s taken a hold of a china hutch along the wall.”
“No!” Beth said, hearing the sound of her plates cracking and dropping to the floor as the wooden shelves gave way. “That was the first piece of furniture I ever made.”
She tried hard to stop herself from sinking to her knees. It felt as though the whole world were against her.
Dillon saw her distress. “I’ll see if I can save what’s left. At the very least, I should be able to do enough to stop the fire from spreading.”
Dillon picked up the second metal bucket by the door and briefly turned to her. “Now, stay as far away as—” He stopped as the bucket flew out of his hand, sending the water splashing across the stones. In an instant, he threw his body toward her and tackled her to the ground.
“Somebody’s shooting,” he shouted. “Keep down.”
Beth’s mind was awash with confusion. She was dazed. Dillon sprang to his feet but crouched low. He pulled out his gun with one hand and grabbed her arm with the other. Together they crawled to the truck and Dillon positioned Beth against the driver’s door.
“Are you okay?” he asked, kneeling beside her, checking her over.
“I’m fine,” she said breathlessly.
Another shot rang out, zipping through the air and hitting the roof of the truck. Dillon shuffled to the front wheel and used it for protection while he tried to spot the shooter.
“I see him,” he yelled. “Do you still have my cell?”
She slipped the phone from her pocket with shaking hands. “Yes.”
“Call 9-1-1 again. Tell them that the fire truck will need police protection.”
Another shot hit the truck’s hood and she let out a yelp. The fire looked to be taking tighter hold inside her house. Smoke was billowing out the door and the sound of smashing crockery falling from her china hutch made her jump. She found it hard to believe what was happening. It was like the scene of a movie. She watched the smoke sweeping out over the bay and imagined her quiet, sedate life being carried away with it.
“Beth!” Dillon’s voice brought her out of her trance. “Make the call.”
She punched the numbers into the keypad and waited for an answer. She saw the lights of the Bracelet Bay Fire Department truck flashing some distance away. They were on their way already.
“Dillon,” she said, her voice betraying her rising panic. “The fire truck is coming.”
“I can’t let them drive into an ambush,” he said. “I’ll go take care of this guy myself. Stay right here and wait for me to come back.”
Then he was gone. The emergency operator on the end of the line had to repeat her question twice before Beth remembered what she was meant to do. She requested officers from the sheriff’s department in the town of Golden Cove, the closest law enforcement station. The operator said there would be a wait of twenty minutes. Beth wondered if that would be too late. But there was no other choice. She hung up the phone and watched the fire truck making its way toward the lighthouse. Sporadic shots pinged through the air, but none seemed to be close. She pressed her hands together, closed her eyes and said, “Please, Lord, keep Your servant, Dillon, safe as he faces the forces of evil.”
She kept her head bowed until she heard the sound of the fire truck’s siren become louder. Then she lifted her head, realizing that she could no longer hear the gunshots. Somewhere down on the beach, beneath the cliff, the sound of a power boat or maybe a Jet Ski roared to life. Then the motor streaked over the water, echoing across the bay.
The fire truck was within a half mile of her home. She didn’t know whether to run and stop it or to sit and wait. She couldn’t make a decision. She was overwhelmed with a sensation of helplessness and despair, a feeling she had not experienced since her ill-fated wedding day.
“Come on, Beth,” she said out loud, rallying herself. “You’re tougher than this.”
With renewed strength, she rose from her position behind the coast guard vehicle and began running toward the fire truck, waving her arms to flag it down. She couldn’t allow the firefighters to drive into a gun battle. She had to take control. The truck stopped right in front of her and one of the men jumped from the vehicle. It was the long-serving station chief, who had known Beth since she was in elementary school.
“Beth,” he said. “We need to get to your home. You’re blocking our way.”
“No, I can’t let you pass,” she said, realizing that she sounded crazy. But