Point Of No Return. Susan Warren May
say that Akif had a daughter, who fell in love with Chet.”
Chet drew in a breath. “Yes, something like that.”
Wick reached over and tugged the cell from his whitened grip, dropping it into the cup holder. “Mae will be fine.”
“She won’t be fine.” Chet flexed his hands. “But if I set foot in that part of the world, Bashim will know it. And neither of us will get out of Georgia alive.”
“You can’t go, boss,” Luke said quietly.
Chet leaned his head back against his seat, closing his eyes, and almost instantly Mae appeared, her green eyes bright, her red hair ribboning down her back, her skin sweet and tangy, her soft laughter like a balm on his calloused heart, smiling as he waltzed her around the dance floor of Viktor and Gracie’s wedding reception. Their last magical moment.
Before she dumped the drink over his head.
He ran his finger and thumb over his eyes, dispelling the image. “But can I live with myself if I don’t?”
TWO
Chet blamed his stupidity on his fatigue and the fact that he’d spent twelve hours on a train staring at the ceiling of his sterile compartment, listening to Wick snore, and trying not to imagine Mae disembarking in the Georgia airport in Tbilisi to Russian gunpoint.
No, he’d thought he was overreacting. The gun pointing wouldn’t start until she got to Gori and met one of the trigger-nervous eighteen-year-old Russian “brown boys” supposedly “peacekeeping” along the Ossetia-Georgian border. He’d read the papers over the past few months. “Peacekeeping” seemed to be a euphemism for “daily terrorist attacks.” These days, regions of Georgia bore a strong resemblance to some areas of Iraq.
And hadn’t that been a comforting thought at 2:00 a.m. as they’d crossed the Berlin border into the Czech Republic? Chet had found himself staring out the window at the dark, rolling countryside of Europe, seeing instead the sweeping hills of Ossetia, rimmed by the jagged, snowy peaks of the Caucasus Mountains to the north. Ageless villages, nestled in the nooks and crannies of mountains lush with fir trees, each centered on a lone, stone church. He could nearly smell the lamb kebobs roasting over an open pit, or baking Khachapuri, dripping with cheese. He could hear children laughing as they bicycled through the village, just outside his window, open to the spring air.
But every memory of Georgia ended with the staccato roll of a Kalashnikov being chambered.
He’d closed his eyes, breathing out the past.
No, sleep, regardless of how inviting, hadn’t been a great idea. Not if he ended up rolling in his sheets, lathered in a cold sweat, screaming. Just what Wick and the rest of his team needed for inspiration.
Instead, Chet had focused on figuring out a way to get into Georgia, sans capture, track down Mae and talk her—or throw her—out of the country.
No wonder he hadn’t gotten any sleep on that train. And no wonder, when he’d shoved his key into his office headquarters, he didn’t realize that the security system hadn’t beeped. He’d just pushed his way inside the sparse and dreary three-room flat, dropped his gear on the checkerboard red and black floor, and reached for the light.
It shed the barest luminescence over his dismal office. He’d turned a fifteenth-century, three-room residence into his headquarters. The largest room, flanked by two ornate French doors, housing his black prefab desk, his computer, a couple of black faux-leather chairs and a huge window that overlooked a grassless courtyard, served as his reception and office area.
In a room the size of his former walk-in closet in D.C., he’d fashioned a kitchen of sorts. It overlooked the alley, held a mini-fridge and a one-burner hotplate, and did a nearly miraculous job of infusing everything in the kitchen with the smell from the corner dumpster below. It was with relief that he did his dishes in the bathtub.
The last room housed their equipment, a veritable stash of electronics, and enough weaponry to take over a small, unarmed country. Oh, and his single bed. And a hanging rack for his clothes.
And, he noticed too late, the CIA.
The two suits, with their high and tight crew cuts and clean-shaven chins, must have lost some shut-eye themselves on the flight over from the Pentagon, because they barely cleared their holsters before Chet walked in on them, rubbing his eyes and hoping to flop down on his bed.
“What the—”
And that was all he got out before he, too, had his Glock in his hand, pointed at the taller of the two spooks, a guy who looked as if he might have played defensive end for Ole Miss, complete with the square jaw and blue-eyed stare.
They all breathed a long moment before Ole Miss lowered his weapon. He glanced at his pal. “Agents Miller and Carlson. We just want to talk.”
“Talk without the guns,” Chet said, his voice dead-pan, all vestiges of fatigue flushed from his system.
Carlson lowered his weapon, tucking it back into his arm holster. “We’re the good guys, remember?” A smirk tugged at his mouth as his brown eyes ran over Chet.
Yeah, good guys. He’d been a “good guy” for a different organization once upon a time. He wasn’t sure there was such a thing anymore.
Chet lowered his Glock. “What do you want?”
“We have a situation and we need your help.” This from Ole Miss, who backed away and sat on Chet’s bed, right on the sleeping bag. He folded his hands and smiled, like, Calm down, pal, everybody’s friends here.
Chet didn’t put his gun away. “I’m tired, guys, so make it snappy. What situation?”
Carlson glanced at Miller and nodded. Miller reached for a briefcase that Chet was now noticing about thirty seconds too late. If it had been a bomb, well, so much for worrying about what Disney character to play in his next gig.
Miller pulled out a folder and handed it to Chet.
Chet took it, his gaze still on the spooks. “Why don’t we talk in my office?” He gestured with a nod toward the front room, then stepped back to follow his guests.
He opened the folder on the way.
The girl in the photo staring back at him couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Huge blue eyes, regal cheekbones, long sable hair that framed her face in thick waves. She wore a red jilbab ornamental dress, and in an inset photo, accompanied it with a silky white hijab. She looked very familiar. Painfully familiar. No, it couldn’t be.
“Who is she?” Chet asked as he dropped the file onto his desk. Miller and Carlson had already folded themselves into the chairs.
“She’s a princess. A Svan princess.” Miller said.
A knot tightened low in Chet’s gut. “Please don’t tell me—”
“She’s the daughter of Akif Bashim.”
Chet closed his eyes, running his hand over them. Of course. She was the spitting image of Carissa. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Darya. Do you know her?”
No. But she could have been a young Carissa at sixteen, except for the eyes. Chet eased himself into a chair.
“I’m too tired for games. Just lay it out there.”
“She’s been kidnapped. Or maybe something else. Intel’s a little sketchy. But we need you to find her.”
Chet was too raw to play it cool, too tired to even be curious about why the CIA had darkened his door to dangle this mission before him.
“When? How?”
“Yesterday. West of Gori, in the state of Georgia,” Carlson said.
Chet closed one eye to stave off the stabbing sensation in his brain. Clearly the cosmos, or perhaps providence,