Praise for Christy Award finalist
SUSAN MAY
WARREN
and her novels
“Susie writes a delightful story…A few hours of reading doesn’t get better.”
—Dee Henderson, CBA bestselling author of the O’Malley series
“Susan May Warren is an exciting…writer whose delightful stories weave the joy of romantic devotion together with the truth of God’s love.”
—Catherine Palmer, bestselling author of Thread of Deceit
“A nail-biting, fast-paced chase through the wilds of Russia. A deft combination of action and romance provides superb balance. Spectacular descriptions place the reader in the center of the intriguing setting.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on In Sheep’s Clothing
“A well-structured romantic thriller with absorbing characters trying to deal with dire circumstances while staying true to their own faith and purpose. Warren skillfully balances the action with a second chance at romance.”
—Library Journal on Sands of Time
For your glory, Lord!
WISER THAN SERPENTS
SUSAN MAY WARREN
Published by Steeple Hill Books™
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I had just tossed the magazine in my growing TBR pile, not sure when I would read it, if ever. My husband happened to pick it up, captured by the title on the cover: The Global Slave Trade. “Hey,” he said, “did you read this?”
I sat down with the article and everything inside me tightened as I read about the epidemic of slave trade around the world today. From women and girls held in captivity to children and men in labor bondage, it’s a horrific situation. 600,000–800,000 people are trafficked internationally each year. Approximately 80% of them are women and children. And it happens in the United States, right under our noses.
One of the organizations trying to do something about it is the International Justice Mission. Think: a team of real-life Jack Bauers rescuing victims caught in the web of slavery. Lawyers, criminal investigators, social workers and volunteers from all walks of life who live Micah 6:8 daily: To seek justice for the oppressed. And they don’t just rescue victims (sometimes at the cost of their own lives!) but they also provide care and counseling, pursue legal justice and fight to prevent it from happening again.
The writer inside me was captured by this idea; the woman inside me ached for the girls forced into sexual slavery, and the Christian inside me said, “Do something!” Suddenly my adventures in Taiwan flooded back to me. We’d gone there for a month of recovery following a traumatic experience in Russia, and after reading the statistics on how so many people are transported through Asia, I knew Taiwan would make the perfect setting for this novel.
David, my American hero, was just the guy to fight this battle. Moreover, with so many of these victims being Russian, I just had to get Yanna involved, also.
Human trafficking is real. It’s an abomination. And must be stopped.
You can help:
Sign up to be a regular prayer partner with IJM, and receive weekly e-mails highlighting prayer requests.
Keep your eyes open to the world around you, and care enough to pay attention to possible illegal abuses of power, even slavery, right in your own backyard.
Finally, give financially to help IJM fight slavery. Over the past ten years, their lawyers, investigators and social workers around the world have rescued thousands of victims of sex trafficking and other forms of abuse and oppression.
I also want to help, and I’ll be donating 15% of the royalties from this book to support this cause. Thank you for helping me help them. For more information, visit www.ijm.org.
Thank you for reading Wiser Than Serpents. I pray it makes you wise, and aware of the serpents in our world.
In His grace,
Susan May Warren
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Questions for Discussion
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest thanks go Krista Stroever and Joan Marlow Golan for their wisdom and willingness to take on this project. Also to Ellen Tarver, whose insights and comments made the story readable. Finally, thanks to my family, who traveled through Taiwan with me, and prayed for me as I wrote this book. You all are great blessings in my life.
Prologue
O ut of all FSB agent Yanna Andrevka’s bright ideas, masquerading as a mail-order bride ranked among the most stupid. This thought took root as she blinked against the sudden flood of sunlight and stared at her groom-to-be, Kwan, as he’d so kindly introduced himself—five foot nine of cut, Asian muscle, a scar running from his chin to his ear, an eyebrow pierced with a curved barbell, and eyes that looked like they could spear through her and take out her heart.
Here comes the bride. Only this bride felt disheveled and grimy, her long hair hanging in strings over her face, her body stiff after being locked in a pitch-black storage room alone for what seemed like an eternity. That things were about to get worse seemed apparent as her captors/hosts/groomsmen dragged her blindfolded from the belly of wherever they’d stashed her, led her to Kwan’s office, sat her down in a chair and handcuffed her arms behind her. She’d had the presence of mind to fist her hands as they secured them, allowing for jangle room on her wrists. She twisted her hands, keeping the circulation pumping, fearing it might take her longer than she hoped to get out of them.
Yanna silenced the moans of fear that rose from the depths. Of course she’d recognized Kwan, even before his kind introduction. He’d been at the top of her Most Likely to Kidnap and Traffic Women search list. Thankfully, she’d also shared her suspicions with her FSB cohorts, which would be only slight consolation when they found her body floating with the fish.
What had she been thinking?
Kwan stood over her, hands loose, her blindfold dangling from one fist, his stance unassuming. The confidence in his body language turned her blood cold in her veins.
She raised her chin and managed to find her voice. “Wõ zài nei li shì?” Not that she expected an answer to her question—where am I?—but it bought her time as her brain spun and tried to fix on her surroundings. She smelled the brine of seawater, and small square windows evidenced a ship’s office. Streams of fading sunlight splotched the thinly carpeted floor and turned a smooth black desk to onyx. Her nausea clinched it—last time she’d been at sea, she’d lost half her stomach overboard and gained a new respect for the rebotnik who fished the Amur river near her home in Russia.
When Kwan didn’t respond, Yanna asked again, “Where am I?”
It occurred to her that she might be saying something that would earn her another slap, like, Touch me again and die, you pig. She hadn’t used her Mandarin for years, and she might be letting loose any one of the threats she conjured up for this man who’d kidnapped, and possibly killed, her sister Elena.
Kwan stepped back from her and leaned against the desk. He picked up a pero, a ten-inch knife, probably intending to terrify her, and chose a star fruit from the bowl on his desk. She ignored the press of hunger in her stomach. Her last meal had been abo
ut three decades ago, courtesy of the hotel at Incheon Airport, Seoul, Korea.
Kwan cut the fruit slowly, his gaze steady. “Qingwèn, ni shì bu shì Meiguó rén.”
Was she an American? She hid a flare of indignation and gave him instead a quivering smile. “Do I look like an American?” she asked softly. She hid the flinch as he gave her a head-to-toe perusal, starting at her calf-high supple leather spiked-heel boots, past the black leather skirt, up to the sheer silk blouse and camisole. American? Hardly. Americans dressed in baggy jeans and sturdy hiking boots. Maybe not all Americans, but the ones she knew prided practicality over form. Missionary Gracie Benson nearly had to be coerced into wearing the pretty dress FSB agent friend Vicktor Shubnikov purchased for her trying to save her life. And Sarai Curtiss, Roman Novik’s girlfriend and humanitarian doctor, ran around the Khabarovsk University Hospital in a pair of yoga pants and running shoes.
Then again, a sturdy pair of Reeboks just might come in handy in about ten seconds when Yanna kicked that juicy smirk off Kwan’s face and demanded Elena’s whereabouts.
After she got out of the handcuffs, of course.
Kwan wore a smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes as he used the knife to bring a piece of star fruit to his mouth. The ring he wore on his middle finger sparkled in the fading sunlight, and she attributed the nasty bruise on her cheek to the snake’s head with the ruby stones. Finishing his silent assessment, he raised a thin black eyebrow. “You speak English.”
She nodded, purposely keeping her eyes down, catching a view of the two thugs who stood slightly behind her. She’d named them Fu and Wang, they looked like extras from a Jackie Chan movie. “I thought I was meeting my future husband. My American future husband,” she mumbled, hiding completely the simmer of terror that lurked just below the skin. Was this how Elena had felt? Had the two goons behind her also drugged the twenty-three-year-old Russian with some sort of drug, perhaps in her plate of dim sum while she waited for her flight to America in the Korean airport? Had they escorted/dragged her through Incheon airport and onto the plane, sat flanking her like Dobermans, and whisked her through customs and passport control in Taiwan like she might be a head of state?
Had they shoved her into a waiting sedan, then clamped a cloth over her nose and mouth, laughing while she kicked and fought and succumbed to yet another drug?
Most importantly, when she’d awoken, had Elena’s stomach turned to knots and threatened to climb up her throat when she realized that no one knew where she was, and that she’d been swallowed whole into a world of human trafficking, bondage and slavery?
Only these thoughts kept Yanna from kicking Kwan in the throat, making a fast break for the door, hurtling herself overboard into the cold China Sea and freestyling it toward shore. These, and the belief that following her hunches might lead her to her little sister. Elena, why didn’t you listen to me?
Kwan laughed at her. He nodded to Fu and Wang to leave as he finished off the star fruit. Then he stood. As he left, Fu handed Kwan her passport, the one listing her as Olga Rustikoff. Through the briefly opened door, Yanna glimpsed bruised skies, blue sea, and heard the sound of a speedboat. How far were they from mainland China?
Kwan paged through the passport. Yanna heard the ship’s motors fire up, felt the boat list as it moved. For the briefest of seconds, she wished she’d listened to Roman and Vicktor, trusted their sources, their concern. And she wished David Curtiss, best friend and American soldier, had answered her e-mails. Yes, he’d told her he’d be undercover, deep under, in fact, but that hadn’t stopped him from writing before. From checking into her life. From caring. The fact he’d been ignoring her for nearly three months hurt more than anyone could ever know. He may think of her as a kid sister, but his friendship filled her world with a light and hope she couldn’t put into words.
She’d never told him that, of course. At this rate, never would. Her body would simply wash ashore on some foreign soil and he’d never know that after fifteen years, she still dreamed he’d fly halfway across the world to take her in his arms and tell her he couldn’t live without her.
It was the drugs in her system talking. Because she—an FSB agent, and David, an American Delta Force major had as much chance of hooking up as she had of escaping this ship and not being devoured by sharks.
Apparently, her backup team, the ones with a supernatural connection—Roman and Vicktor, Gracie and Sarai—needed to up their piety because God certainly hadn’t heard their prayers for her safety. Either that, or Yanna was simply correct in her belief that prayers to an unseen—and uncaring—God accomplished nothing. After ten years fighting crime in Russia, she could have told them that.
Kwan picked up his metal garbage can, set it at his feet. Then, taking his lighter, he ignited the passport and dropped it into the can. The acrid smell of plastic filled the room. Yanna stared wide-eyed at the black smoke.
“Why—?”
But she knew why, even as the word left her mouth. Kwan reached behind him and held up a tube of lipstick. Saying nothing, he uncapped it and twisted the base. Yanna held her breath as a three-inch curved blade extended.
Kwan nodded. “Want to explain to me how a schoolteacher smuggled this onto an airplane? Or better, what is this?” He pulled her cell phone from his pocket, one of her best designs, the one with global GPS active 24/7. When she’d given one to Roman, it had helped save his life, and she’d counted on the little transmitter planted inside to save hers. “This doesn’t look like a Nokia from the central market.”
She kept her expression cool, but inside dread pooled like blood.
Why, oh, why, had she talked herself into believing she could do this alone? Every muscle in her body tightened when Kwan dropped the phone into a drawer and pushed himself off the desk. He approached her slowly, dug his fingers into her hair, then yanked her head back. Her scalp screamed, but every nerve centered on the sudden cold prick of her not-so-cute-anymore knife scraping the well of her neck.
She swallowed. “I…my…cousin works airport security. He—”
“Agent Andrevka, I’m not that stupid.”
She refused to flinch, to give any indication that his words sliced through her, leaving her cold.
Yes, this was definitely the dimmest of her bright ideas.
“I’m not sure, exactly, what to do with you.” He ran his hand down her hair, smoothing it. “You’re very beautiful—”
A knock came at the door. With a sigh, Kwan let her go and stepped back from her. She felt his gaze on her like daggers, or maybe it was simply her pounding heart, cutting her chest to shreds. Get a hold of yourself, Yanna. She hadn’t worked in the field since her training days, but she’d been taught how to think ahead, look for opportunities.
To have backup. Oy. She hoped her other transmitter was still operating.
“Enter,” Kwan said, hiding the knife behind his back as he crossed his hands.
The door opened, and Yanna heard footfalls even as she kept her eyes ahead of her. Fu spoke quickly, softly. “He’s here.”
Kwan’s breathing, and the silence that followed felt like a noose, choking off her air. Think, Yanna! Now might be her one and only chance for escape…but what about Elena?
“Escort him in—”
“But the wom—”
Kwan raised a hand, cutting Fu off. Every muscle in Yanna’s body coiled as she watched Kwan sit down at his desk. He closed the lipstick case, capped it. Folded his hands. His silver eyebrow spike gleamed against the sunlight.
Yanna twisted her hands in her cuffs and, for a moment, considered a prayer, just in case she might be wrong about God caring.
She heard voices at the door, and Fu entered the room followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man. She scrutinized him through the curtain of her long hair, wondering how many steps it might take to break free and launch herself out the door. The visitor didn’t look her way as he entered, but she glimpsed ponytail-long dark hair, a close, trimmed beard and an arrogance in hi
s step. She looked away. Dressed in a pair of designer jeans, a gray silk shirt and a pair of black hiking boots, he looked American. Of course. The center of the human-trafficking trade. Yanna worked her handcuffs as she listened to their conversation with her rusty Mandarin.
According to her translation, Mr. American slave trader wasn’t exactly fluent, either. But he made his point. His shipment waited in Taiwan and he wanted to set up an exchange.
She wondered if she, or Elena, might be among the cargo.
Yanna studied him, took in his wide shoulders, the way he held himself and a memory stirred inside her. Fu saw her perusal and slapped her.
Pain exploded in her face and tears rushed to her eyes. As she cried out, the visitor turned. She saw his body jerk, and she looked away, hating the foolish bravado that lied to her and told her she was field material. Too much time spent with her hero pals Vicktor and Roman.
She was a computer tech, with a knack for gadgets. What had made her think she wouldn’t face the same fate as Elena? Or worse, the same fate as Katya?
Nothing but desperation.
“What is she doing here?” the voice said, and Yanna looked up. Blue eyes, familiar blue eyes looked down at her, and for the briefest of seconds, they filled with horror.
She’d seen that horror before. Just outside Red Square in Moscow fifteen years back, right after a man had grabbed her and wrestled her into the shadows.
Right after David Curtiss had jumped him and pulled him off her.
Wiser Than Serpents Page 1