She cast a glance at that failed source of transport. It was completely intact, not that she was surprised. They should have slept in it. It would’ve been a lot more comfortable than a grimy blanket on rocky ground or huddling under the thin cover of her burqa to keep warm. Not that she’d have rested any better. Her thoughts and fears had as much to do with keeping her awake as any discomfort.
Wade hadn’t slept at all. His night had been spent prowling around the camp, watching from different vantage pints. The two kids had fallen asleep on the mat Chloe had laid out for him, and he’d refused to let them be moved. Offering to share hers had seemed necessary, in spite of their guests and an ingrained sense of the forbidden. Wade needed to conserve his strength, she thought. Going without both food and sleep was hardly a recommendation for recovery from a wound, and they still had a long journey in front of them. But he had cut her off, refusing before she had time for much more than a gesture.
As she lay staring up at the cold glitter of the stars above her solitary pallet, Chloe had wondered which of the several possible reasons for vetoing it had moved him, and if he realized she had shared his bed the night before. And she wasn’t sure, then or now, whether she was glad or sorry that she had been left alone.
The blast of a horn brought her head around. She sprang to her feet as she saw Wade standing in the middle of the roadway with a panel truck bearing down on him at terrific speed. He held up one hand, palm turned out. As the truck swerved toward the other lane, he sidestepped. The truck began to brake, skidding with an ear-splitting squeal of tires.
“Come on!” Wade called.
Chloe glanced back over her shoulder toward where their guests were hidden among the cedars. The two children had still slept when she and Wade made their way down to the highway. The Uzbek father had been fashioning a snare for small game from a roll of nylon line he’d found in the tool bag, as if his need to feed his family was paramount.
“There’s not enough room for everybody,” Wade objected, as if reading her mind. “Let’s go. Now.”
She was already moving, running toward where the driver had reached across to shove open the door. A Sikh, he was complaining volubly about Wade’s crazy methods, also of how he’d been instructed not to pick up refugees and only stopped because he could see that Wade was not such a person. He was still talking in high excitement long after Wade had boosted Chloe to the passenger seat and climbed up beside her and the truck was moving again. He didn’t shut up, not until they’d reached the old caravan terminus of Peshawar and he set them down in the city center.
After that, it was almost ridiculously easy. A hired car to Rawalpindi, toiletries picked at a newsstand followed by a good wash and repairs in the rest room, and they were soon waiting in the gate for their flight to be called. This was the most trying time, as they scanned every face, every man who stood around them, expecting to see Ahmad. Finally the boarding process began. They found their seats, the plane doors were closed and they pulled back from the gate. Minutes later, they were airborne.
They had done it. They were leaving the Middle East. It was over. They were safe. They were free.
With her head pressed against the seat back as they climbed into the bright blue sky, Chloe turned her head to look at Wade. She met his eyes clearly, without obstruction, since she had discarded her burqa, once and for all, in the airport rest room. He held her gaze for long seconds, then he smiled and reached to cover her hand with his. His grasp was warm, firm. Feeling it, she realized how cold her own fingers were, how nervous and afraid she’d been until this moment. Turning her hand, she placed her palm against his and meshed their fingers, holding tight. Her gaze rested on that clasp with momentary amazement for how impossible it would have seemed only a few days ago, and how right it felt. At least for now.
A jumble of feelings crowded her chest, from disbelief to doubt about Ahmad’s whereabouts and trepidation over what lay ahead. Sorting them out was too much however, when nothing could be done about any of it for the next twenty-four hours.
She looked up again at Wade, wondering what he was thinking, what he was planning for when they finally landed in New Orleans. His eyes were closed. He was asleep.
Her lips twisted in a wry smile. Then she let her own lashes drift down, soothing the graininess of exhaustion, shutting out the light. Sleep settled over her like a thick fog. But she did not release Wade’s hand.
It was in Zurich that she had the first sense of dislocation. The airport was huge, incredibly clean and streamlined, and the echoing announcements in multiple Western languages fell strangely on her ears. Most unnerving, however, were the clothes people wore. They exposed amazing amounts of skin, and had what seemed a colorless and vapid chic that allowed the personality of the wearer to dominate. By contrast, her long-sleeved, high-necked blouse of aqua-blue and matching skirt bordered at the ankles in gold embroidery managed to appear both exotic and dowdy at the same time. She not only looked unusual, but was uncomfortably aware of having worn the same clothes for the best part of three days and nights, since changing at the RAWA safe house. She didn’t blame people for the way they stared, still less for how they kept their distance. Their layover time in Switzerland allowed no time for leaving the airport to shop for replacements, however, even if she’d had the money. Her main consolation was that Wade had much the same problem.
By the time they reached Hartsfield International in Atlanta, the two of them were half-blind with fatigue, punch-drunk from jet lag and dehydrated from endless hours of flying. Their layover was more than three hours, however, allowing extra time for customs. Chloe was afraid that the passport provided by Wade, with its computer-aged and -enhanced photo of her, would be scrutinized more closely than in Europe, that she might even be pulled aside for questioning. The wait in the long line of passengers was excruciating, especially since Wade left her to hold their places while he used the phone. Her relief when she saw him returning was disturbing since it showed clearly how lost she felt, and how dependent she was becoming on him. Regardless, she was glad he was close as they were processed through customs.
“Your call was to your family?” she asked as they sat in the departure gate, eating ice-cream cones and watching strangers with blank, distracted faces walk past in a steady stream.
He made a sound of agreement. “Getting an update on what they’ve been doing since my call from Rawalpindi. I also arranged a rental car.”
“Where are we going, I mean from the airport?” It was odd that she hadn’t asked sooner, she thought, but they’d been so exhausted that somehow it hadn’t seemed to matter. The whole thing was only becoming real in her mind now that they were on American soil.
“Home. At least at first, until you can find your feet and decide what you want to do. Got any ideas?”
“Not…not really.”
“Understandable.”
His concentration was on his ice cream as he caught a drip with his tongue. Chloe watched the muscular agility of that movement while an odd sensation curled in the pit of her stomach. Finally she said, “I suppose I’ll get an apartment. But first I’ll need access to whatever money I’m supposed to have.”
“No problem.”
Her own ice cream was dissolving faster than she was eating it. She took care of the problem, relishing the cold, rich sweetness. A thought struck her and she swallowed with difficulty. “I’d also like to see…to see where my father’s buried.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
She looked up as he spoke, but his gaze was on her lips. She licked them, reaching up to wipe one corner as she realized she still had a leftover bit of stickiness there. Wade blinked, returning his gaze to his cone. But not before she’d seen enough heat in his eyes to melt the ice cream in his hand.
Their flight was called then. A short time later, they were landing in New Orleans. Suddenly it seemed too soon, too abrupt a transition. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready at all.
The people crowdi
ng around them were different from those in Europe. They smiled and laughed and talked nonstop with rich drawls that rose and fell in almost musical expression. Many of them seemed to know each other, or were part of family groups. Some business suits were in evidence, but the majority of those streaming back and forth wore T-shirts, jeans and running shoes, as if the combination constituted a kind of uniform. The women with their short hair and expertly applied makeup particularly caught Chloe’s attention. They seemed unaware of the emphasis placed on their breasts and hips by their close-fitting clothing, and unselfconscious about the way men looked them over as they walked by. They were free in their movements and speech, so at ease with their natural sexuality that they were almost oblivious to it. They appeared so casually sophisticated, in fact, that they made Chloe feel out of place and incredibly repressed. And she wondered with mordant curiosity if there was a single virgin like her among them.
Chloe would have followed the stream of passengers headed toward baggage claim and public transportation, if Wade hadn’t touched her arm. “This way,” he said, indicating the main terminal. “We can get a taxi that’s dropping off passengers without having to stand in line for it, then ride downtown to pick up the rental.”
“But the sign says there’s a rental desk downstairs.”
“The lines will be miles long there, too. This will be faster.”
She was too tired to care one way or the other. Obediently she turned in the direction he indicated, not even bothering to pull away as he put a hand at the small of her back to guide her around an elderly woman in a wheelchair.
A man came at them from the side when they were less than three yards from the entrance doors. He moved fast and quiet, skimming between a pilot pulling a black case on wheels and a chubby guy with a sunburn and a straw hat that said St. Thomas, V.I.
Wade clamped an arm around her waist and spun Chloe behind him. Then he dropped into a fighter’s crouch as he faced the threat.
“Damn, Wade!” The would-be assailant skidded to a halt and threw up his hands. “If this is the way you greet kinfolk, what the hell do you do with enemies?”
“Shit, little brother. Don’t do that to me.” Wade sighed, and straightened. Then he took a long stride forward and folded the newcomer into a quick, back-pounding hug.
As they broke apart, Chloe looked from one to the other. Wade’s brother was a fraction shorter, his hair a little darker, and his eyes vivid blue instead of green. Despite these obvious differences, they were more alike than not. Their features were the same, as was the proud set of their shoulders and their bearing that had such confidence it bordered on arrogance.
“Didn’t mean to yank your chain,” Wade’s brother said. “I was afraid you were about to get away before I could reach you. I just got here myself, after dropping Adam off at Arrivals to watch for you.”
“You didn’t say you’d be meeting us.”
“Didn’t know it. Family decision, last minute, as usual.” The younger Benedict tipped his head, trying to see around Wade. “So do I get an introduction to the lady, or you keeping her to yourself?”
“Guess I’ll risk it, since I know that you’ve got your hands full with Janna. Chloe Madison, meet another Benedict, my brother Clay.” Wade stepped aside as he spoke, and held out a hand to beckon her forward. As she moved to his side, she saw his brother’s gaze widen. Then it traveled slowly from the top of her center-parted hair down to where it hung well below her waist. He inspected the soft leather sandals on her feet and, on the way back up to her face, the curves of her hips, slim waist, and front of her blouse.
“Oh,” he said in a blank, almost stunned, tone of voice. “Oh. My. God.”
“Well put,” Wade said with dry humor in his voice. “You can take that as a compliment, Chloe, since this guy isn’t the impressionable type.”
“You said when you left that you had to go rescue a kid,” Clay objected, though without looking at his brother. “I wasn’t expecting a goddess.”
“Ditto,” Wade answered. “I only found out after the unveiling.”
Clay’s brows shot up toward his hairline. “You’ll have to explain that.”
“Later. For now, we want a hot bath and a cool, clean bed, in that order.”
“Right.”
“Separate baths, separate beds,” Wade added with cut-steel precision in his voice.
“Sorry.”
That single word was repentant enough, but didn’t quite match the gleam of conjecture in his brother’s eyes. Chloe thought the younger Benedict had missed nothing of Wade’s rigorously correct attitude. It was no great surprise that he didn’t get it, of course. She didn’t quite understand, either.
Even as these thoughts ran through her head, Clay turned with a broad gesture toward the door. “This way, ma’am, your chariot is waiting, and about to run over its five-minute parking limit.”
The vehicle he was talking about was a dove-gray SUV with four doors, mud-grip tires, leather seats and far more luxury than anything she had seen in the past decade. Wade handed Chloe into the back seat, since the plan was to drive around to the lower level to pick up Wade’s older brother waiting there. It took several minutes because of traffic and construction, but they finally pulled up near the line of waiting taxis outside the Arrivals area.
“There he is,” Clay said, and bumped his horn.
A man turned from where he leaned on a concrete support, watching the door. Obviously another Benedict, he lifted a hand and started toward them.
Abruptly a flat report smacked the air. For a second, Chloe thought one of the taxis had rear-ended the next in line. Then Wade reached for her, dragging her off the seat to the floorboard. At the same time, he gave a shout. “Down! Incoming fire!”
Clay ducked, crouching over the wheel. The front passenger door was wrenched open, then slammed shut again. Two shots punched the back glass and zinged past overhead. Glass shattered inward in sharp-edged bits like a rain of ice-cream salt.
“Drive! Drive!” The order came from the addition to their number, somewhere above and in front of Chloe. Outside could be heard yells, screams, car horns and the staccato reports of more firing.
They pealed away with a screech of tires. The SUV swerved into a wide turn that slung her against the seat back, then straightened again, gathering speed. Chloe could see nothing, do nothing except clutch Wade’s shoulder for balance and try to control the rage that filled her.
She’d thought she was safe, at least for a little while. She’d thought that even if her stepbrother came after her and Wade, it would be days, even weeks before he found her.
She’d been wrong. He had not come after them at all.
Ahmad was already here.
11
“We definitely have company,” Wade said, his voice grim as he looked back to see Ahmad and two buddies pile into a late-model green sedan and pull into traffic behind them. He couldn’t help wondering what the trio would have done if he and Chloe had walked out of that airport exit alone. Shot them on sight? Surrounded them and put a knife to their ribs before driving somewhere for a slower end to it all?
It hadn’t happened so there was no point thinking about it. The real question was, what now?
Clay spoke up then as if in cheerful answer to his mental query. “They picked the wrong folks to follow. Not to mention the wrong town for it.” He accelerated in a smooth surge of power. Swinging around the curves of the airport exit lanes with easy control, he emerged on the highway.
“They’re still back there,” Adam said as he watched his side mirror.
“Not for long,” Clay answered.
The comment was followed by a rapid change of lanes. Brief seconds later, or so it seemed, they were merging onto Interstate 10. The sedan kept pace, but only by cutting off two vehicles and passing another one on the right. With any luck, Wade thought, the police would pick up their tail. He just hoped they didn’t flag the SUV, since it felt as if it might sprout wings at any second
.
As he glanced ahead again, he suddenly realized they were eastbound. “What gives? Why aren’t we heading for Turn-Coupe?”
“Mom gave instructions to bring you back to her place.” Clay checked his mirrors, then cut across two lanes of traffic to avoid rear-ending a pickup towing a bass boat.
“We can’t do that,” Wade said instantly. “If that crew back there can track airline schedules, they can figure out where she lives.”
“In that case, we have to go see about her,” Adam said in hard response.
“You’re right,” Wade said, wiping a hand over his face. The strain of the past few days must have clouded his brain more than he realized. His mother might not be a Benedict anymore, since she’d resumed her maiden name, but would still be a prime target. They’d be hamstrung, all of them, if she was taken hostage.
He glanced at Chloe. Her face was white. It wasn’t surprising, since she knew better than any just what her stepbrother was capable of doing in his dedication to his fanatic ideas of right and wrong. However misguided the guy’s beliefs and principles, Wade had to appreciate how he stuck to them. Reminded him of the Benedicts in a peculiar sort of way.
The beep of a horn brought his head around again. Clay was traversing traffic lanes again, asking for and getting concession from a fast-moving taxi before making a dive for a long, straight exit lane. As Wade craned to check the rear window again, he saw the rental car almost cut off by a big tanker truck, though the driver whipped around it to make the exit. Two cars following the truck slammed on their brakes with the sound of squealing tires and blasting horns.
Now the chase was really on, not that Wade doubted how it would end. Clay might be a backwoods boy who spent more time snapping art photos of alligators than prowling around New Orleans, but he didn’t neglect visiting their mom or taking Janna and Lainey to town on medical visits and pleasure trips. He knew the city. It was a good thing, too, because it wasn’t an easy place to navigate. The old French Quarter with its narrow streets was its heart, lying in the half-moon-shaped bend in the Mississippi River that gave it the name, the Crescent City. More modern thoroughfares either followed the great curve to avoid the Quarter, stopped just before they reached it, ran at odd angles to intersect with it, or bypassed it with a tangle of overpasses and underpasses. Then there were the many parks and big cemeteries to be circumvented. The result was a maze, streets that might run only a few blocks before vanishing altogether, alternate between one-way and two-way traffic, or change their names three times between Downtown, the French Quarter, and Uptown. It took a native or someone used to following obscure boat channels through uncharted swamps to make sense of it. Clay belonged to the latter category.
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