Flee the Night (4 page)
Had he made it clear that lives hung in the balance? It seemed fitting that he’d taken to calling himself Nero even during his off-line time. Powerful, but surrounded by incompetents. No wonder the Roman ruler had turned slightly deranged. He threw his cell phone against the wall. It fell to the floor with an unsatisfying thump next to the television remote.
Silent images came from the muted television. He recognized the news of the Amtrak wreck and saw the reporter’s mouth move as she most likely described the snarl of machinery that littered the track. Nero’s gut churned. Where was the Ex-6 program?
Ishmael was dead. Confirmed by none other than the wolves tracking his every move. Nero felt a stab of pain, inconvenience mostly. He’d spent a good decade relying on the man. It would take another decade to find another assassin with Ishmael’s skills, someone who shared his goals and who looked beyond morals and ethics to the potential the current political climate stirred up. With the attention of the world focused on the Middle East and the consequential panic for oil, millions of greenbacks waited for the swift and astute.
Thanks to careful planning and Lacey’s recent advances in cryptology, he was both. He had been wise, as usual, to keep the former CIA whiz under his wing. He didn’t fight a smirk as he stepped up to the mirror and righted his appearance. The thin ivory tie, the matching dress shirt, the black silk suit. No need to betray the panic that iced his veins.
Perhaps he should trek down to Poplar Bluff and get eye to eye with the people who should be mopping up this mess. Just call him Mr. Inspiration.
He had lives at stake after all.
Besides, wouldn’t it be nice to glimpse Lacey, handcuffed to her bed, surprise and terror on that beautiful face? The past, returning to offer him retribution.
He glanced at his watch, and his stomach reacted to the time by climbing up his throat. Retrieving his cell phone, he tucked it into his suit pocket, grabbed his key, and hefted the garment bag over his shoulder.
Two hundred and forty-three miles to Poplar Bluff. Five hours. That left him forty-eight more to find the Ex-6 program and save his neck.
One o’clock in the morning and the lady at the hospital admissions desk sounded as weary as he felt when she refused to tell him how the three kids were doing. Micah dropped the receiver onto the cradle and scowled at the telephone. Bureaucracy.
He combed his hand through his wet hair, feeling chilled clear to his soul. Some animal had climbed inside his gullet and growled demands for food. But after standing in the shower for thirty minutes, watching grime and guano pool at his feet, Micah could barely drag his bone-weary body to the hotel bed, let alone muster the vigor to hustle it to the local IHOP. The animal would have to wait until morning to be appeased.
Dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, Micah flopped against the pillows and dug around for the remote. He scanned through the channels, found the obligatory CNN feed, and caught the tail end of himself being interviewed. Oh, he looked lovely in a filthy yellow helmet and blue jumpsuit, dirt blackening his face. He barely recognized his voice, so flattened was his Southern drawl. Twenty years in the army had nearly obliterated his Southern good-ole-boy distinction. He sounded like a Yankee with a bad cold.
When the stranger on the screen wiped his face, as if clearing a tear, he turned off the set, disgusted. He could just imagine fellow rescuer and ex—Green Beret buddy Conner Young sitting off to the side, holding his gut laughing, or worse, writing to Micah’s former cohorts from the 10th Special Forces somewhere in war-torn Eastern Europe.
News flash: Jim Micah has feelings! And they’re dripping all over national TV.
He cringed at the thought. Iceman, they’d called him, and he’d had no problem living up to that reputation. Emotions were—and always had been—a liability. The last time he’d actually let something akin to his real feelings show, he’d ended up embarrassing himself, his best friend, and losing the only woman he’d ever loved.
“You’re
marrying
her?” Even now, more than a decade later, the memory of his own voice pitched into incredulity made him wince.
John Montgomery had frowned, as if confused by Micah’s question. “Of course. She’s perfect for me.”
Not,
I love her
. Not,
she’s the one I’ve wanted since you introduced me to her our senior year
, but,
she’s perfect for me
. As in,
she’ll fit
my
life,
my
goals.
Micah had wanted to grab his best friend by the throat.
“But …” Panic had laced Micah’s throat, and his emotions gurgled out. “Does she—?” He bit off his words.
John laughed. “Wait, are you still thinking she loves you? C’mon, Micah. She’s been my girl since high school. She was over you the day you introduced us at Shakey’s Pizza.”
Micah felt sick, remembering Lacey’s wide eyes, silver and precious, twinkling as Micah wrestled his best friend through the packed pizza joint to meet the girl who felt like laughter and sunshine to his soul. “You’re the quarterback,” she’d said, awe in her sweet voice.
Micah had watched with a sinking heart, somehow holding on to his smile as John took Lacey’s hand, and with one swift, senior move, stole Micah’s girl.
“Well, yeah, sweetheart. Someone has to win for the Eagles.” Then John winked at her, exuding 120 percent Southern male charisma. Couldn’t she see the guy was all glitter? He didn’t have a serious bone in his body. John Montgomery loved the moment and poured his heart and smile into it.
Sometimes Micah actually hated his best friend.
Especially when, seven years later, Micah had stuffed down his last hopes, apologized, and slapped his friend on the back, congratulating John on his nuptials. Then he slinked away like a hound to lick his wounds.
No, emotions only led to painful admissions, regrets, and what-ifs. Besides, today he wasn’t fraying at the seams; he’d just been relieved that the kids were safe. Micah’s sudden flux of emotions had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he could never have a son like Brian, a kid who reminded him of his nephew, complete with mischievous brown eyes and questions on overdrive. Since his cancer, that it had become a physical impossibility.
Muting the television, Micah tossed the remote onto the bed. Silence blanketed the room. Outside the cheesy hotel—there wasn’t another one closer than thirty miles on this lonely strip of back-mountain highway—a half-lit neon light turned the dingy carpet blood red. The room reeked of embedded cigarette smoke and dust. He’d constructed a trail of towels across the moldy bathroom floor to his bed, pretty sure the Centers for Disease Control could find a few new biological weapons ringing the shower drain or breeding in the grout.
Rolling to the center of the lumpy mattress, Micah flung the bedspread over himself and crammed the pillow under his head. He wondered if Andee and Sarah had returned from their quest for a convenience store. Conner had found shelter in his pickup at a local campground. Never one to leave his computer gear unattended, Conner actually got chest pains at the thought of leaving his wizardry alone for the night. The former communications whiz personified the new wave of adventurer, equipped with a four-wheel-drive Chevy, over-the-bed topper, satellite television, and Internet hookup. Conner strapped on his cell phone like a six-gun before he even climbed out of bed. He’d been showing off his latest acquisition—a palm computer with cell phone capabilities—when they’d received the alert for the missing children.
The call had interrupted a precious caving weekend. With Andee and Sarah trekking down from New York, it wasn’t often the group carved out time to cave together. At least Micah and Conner had spent a couple of relaxing days at Micah’s condo in Ashleyville before heading out to east Tennessee to meet up with Sarah and Andee. Conner mentioned looping over the mountains and wandering up the coast while he frittered away his vacation. With his latest gadgets, he could run his information technology company from anywhere as long as he was available for consulting.
Now
there
was a life in which Micah might be interested. No ties and flexing his brain for his bucks instead of throwing his body in the line of fire. He couldn’t even guess where his old unit slept tonight, but he’d put money on the assumption that it wasn’t in a bed or even in a place marked legibly on a map. Then again, how much worse could it get than being rolled up like a burrito in a polyester bedspread, the back of his stomach rubbing against the front in hunger?
He’d thought when he’d signed up for glory in the Green Berets, he might find eternal purpose. Instead he discovered that serving in the military played out like any other job, one long day after another. As years spooled out and he climbed the ranks, it became more and more difficult to roll out of the bunker and see light threading down from heaven.
Micah’s unexpected battle with cancer had allowed him to step back, regroup, and take a fresh look at his life verse: “The Lord has already told you what is good, and this is what he requires: to do what is right, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.” By embracing the Green Beret motto—to free the oppressed—he thought he might accomplish Micah 6:8 all in one swoop. He longed to be God’s man, had thought he was on the inside lane toward finishing well. Then why did his soul sometimes feel like a rock sitting hard and cold in the middle of his chest?
Micah slammed a fist into his pillow—roughly the thickness of that IHOP special he kept dreaming of—and tried not to think about his bleak future.
Settling into the magic between REM sleep and consciousness, Micah envisioned Lacey, backlit by the bath-room light. “Hi there, hero,” she said. At first she seemed a shadow. Then she smiled, and he smiled back, settling into the comfort of his dream.
“I missed you.” She came toward him, wearing an old football jersey and a pair of jeans. The pants dragged on the carpet, her painted toenails teasing from under the cuffs. “Rough night?”
He tucked one arm under his head, watching her. Her eyes glowed, the love in them twisting his heart enough to make him gasp. “Yeah,” he heard himself say. “A couple more hours and we would have lost the kids.”
She reached out and lightly ran two fingers along the scar on his stomach, the one that extended under his arm and around his back. “Does it still hurt?”
“Sometimes,” he said, suddenly wanting to hide the way he still fought for breath during a long run or the weakness that often rushed over him, knocking him to his knees.
Tears filled her eyes, glistening in the lamplight. “I’m sorry, Micah. So sorry.” She moved her hand up to his cheek. He turned his face into its softness, fighting the burn in his throat.
Headlights blared across the room into Micah’s eyes. He blinked, and Lacey’s image died, leaving only the silhouette of the ethereal moment traced on his heart.
Micah stared at the ceiling, gritting his teeth, furious that in sleep she came to him, mocking the contempt he wanted to feel. He pushed himself off the bed and padded to the window. The drizzle had turned frenetic and splattered the ground like machine-gun fire. He leaned his forehead on the cold pane, watching the car that had awakened him obliterate a puddle. His pickup parked across the lot looked dark and lonely. Andee and Sarah had either not returned from their expedition, had parked down the row, or—with their combined brainpower and verve, this wasn’t unlikely—decided to hightail it to the nearest city and find a real hotel, complete with room service and spa.
Only the raindrops and his regrets lingered to keep him company. He put his hand to his chest, feeling cold and hollow.
Lord, please drive this woman from my mind. I’m only human and these desires aren’t right, let alone healthy. Please free me from this grip she has on me.
Micah followed the towel path to the bathroom, got a drink, washed his face again, then returned to the bed and thoroughly tangled the bedsheets, wrestling with his insomnia and the enduring outline of Lacey on his subconscious.
He had finally found a comfortable position, a place where every muscle didn’t retort with malice, when his cell phone jangled. Clawing his way out of the swaddle of sheets, he lunged for it, digging it out of his backpack on the fourth ring, a second before it switched over to voice mail. “What?”
“Hello?”
The voice scraped off the final vestiges of sleep and dragged him down the tunnels of time. “Hello?” he asked, sure his ears deceived him. He knew his heart did because it stuck in his ribs, glued there by bittersweet joy. It was completely unfair that after nearly seven years of not hearing her voice it still turned his insides to mush. Hadn’t God heard his desperation?
“Micah, is that you?”
Despite the fact that he’d been called by his last name since his junior high football days, only one person used it as if it were a sweet song, with a soft catch of hope in her voice. Only one person knew he’d wanted to be everything that name embodied.
“Yeah, Lacey,” he said, fighting to keep his tone flat, “you found me.”