Words left her.
Which was okay, because the next second he kissed her again. Sweetly. Perfectly. Cutting off any objections she might have felt about his behind-her-back schemes.
She probably should get used to that. After all, she trusted the man who was a master of undercover work. More than that, underneath the lies, the black camouflage, and the cowboy swagger, Will Masterson was a real hero. Her hero.
No, her man of God.
A Note from the Author
SOMETIMES DON’T YOU just want to go to bed early? Climb beneath the warm sheets, pull the flannel blanket over your head, and pray that tomorrow might be … brighter?
It’s been a long day. The morning started out bleak, the sky a slate gray, the temperature plunging to a breath-stealing twenty below and a nasty wind picking at the cracks around my windows. It should have been a day for hot cocoa, a good book, and the electric blanket on high.
Except, across the hall one child is fighting the flu, while another is downstairs struggling with a homeschool, creative-writing assignment. Laundry calls my name from the basement, and I’m pretty sure someone is going to want dinner in a couple of hours. Another child has a school report due (why do they always wait until the night before?), and the last one needs help cleaning the bunny cage.
Oh, and I think I might have been trying to write a book in there somewhere.
Is 4:00 p.m. too early to retire for the day?
The theme passage for Escape to Morning comes from Lamentations 3:22-24: “The faithful love of the LORD never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning. I say to myself, ‘The LORD is my inheritance; therefore, I will hope in him!’ ”
I need God’s mercies to be fresh each morning if I’m going to face my day, because, frankly, life is overwhelming, and if I think too far ahead I won’t get out of bed at all.
I love Will and Dani—two people who are just trying to make it through life one day at a time. Dannette is a heroine I understand. Driven to do a job well, she was afraid to trust God too much with her life. Because, well, what if He let her down? What if He wasn’t there when life turned dark? when she felt at the end of her herself? And Will—he’s just a guy trying to figure out what it means to be a man of God.
As I began to study Lamentations, the word inheritance (or portion in KJV), stood out to me. It’s used in many verses and means not only “reward” but also “sustainer, redeemer, rescuer” … basically everything. Or “enough.” We hope in God because He is enough. Enough wisdom. Enough strength. Enough forgiveness. Enough grace. Enough.
Flee the Night was about being freed from mistakes and dark pasts into hope. Escape to Morning is about walking toward that hope one day at a time in faith, expecting God’s mercies anew each morning and trusting Him to be enough for that day.
The Christian life is a journey. One day at a time, sometimes one hour at a time. Some days are successful—healthy kids and word counts reached. But others, well, they’re days of slogging through until bedtime. Through each, however, we can expect God to be our portion, our sustainer. And finally, our reward.
Thank you for reading Escape to Morning. I pray that Will and Dani’s journey encouraged you on your own. And may you find God to be enough.
In His Grace,
Susan May Warren
About the Author
Susan May Warren recently returned home after serving for eight years with her husband and four children as missionaries in Khabarovsk, Far East Russia. Now writing full-time as her husband runs a lodge on Lake Superior in northern Minnesota, she and her family enjoy hiking and canoeing and being involved in their local church.
Susan holds a BA in mass communications from the University of Minnesota and is a multi-published author of novellas and novels with Tyndale, including Happily Ever After, the American Christian Romance Writers’ 2003 Book of the Year and a 2003 Christy Award finalist. Other books in the series include Tying the Knot and The Perfect Match, the 2004 American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year. Escape to Morning is the sequel to Flee the Night and her second book in her new romantic adventure search-and-rescue series with Tyndale.
Susan invites you to visit her Web site at www.susanmaywarren.com. She also welcomes letters by e-mail at [email protected].
Expect the Sunrise
STERLING MCRAE SHOULD have known he couldn’t escape his duty, even deep inside the forests of northeastern Alaska, a hundred miles from civilization.
No, duty found him in the form of a grimy terrorist in an orange hunting vest and cap. However, said terrorist hadn’t a prayer of escaping the McRae brothers. At least that’s what Mac told himself as another branch slapped him across the face and he plowed through a bramble of thistle berry.
He heard Brody behind him, thundering like a bulldozer through the forest, occasionally yelling his name, but Mac didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
He’d been hunting Ari Al-Hasid and members of his cell for nearly three years. Maybe if he caught him, he might be able to breathe a little deeper, sleep more than two or three hours at a stretch. He could rip down one of the many pictures clipped on the bureau’s bulletin board.
Sterling could barely make out Hasid’s form, a sickly orange blur between a stand of bushy black spruce. He needed to get out into the open and close the distance between them. But Hasid carried a .338 Winchester, a weapon that could blow a nice hole through a bear and lay waste to a man. Mac needed the trees for protection, even if they picked him off like a Lakers forward.
“I’ll cut him off!”
Mac glanced behind him, saw Brody heading for the clearing, and his chest tightened. His brother didn’t know the first thing about suspect apprehension—i.e., don’t announce your intentions to the enemy. For the second time in ten minutes, Mac wondered if he should stop, call the sighting in, and let the on-duty heroes handle Mr. Al-Hasid.
Except Mac’s answer to that dilemma lay fifty feet to the west in a swath cut out from the forest, a snake of forty-eight-inch wide, double-steel-walled piping that stretched eight hundred miles from the northern slope of Alaska to Valdez. A river of black gold.
The Alaska Pipeline System. One of the most vulnerable terrorist targets in all of America. The destruction of the pipeline would cause America to seek new alliances with Arab nations, with Russia, and even tuck tail in their relationships with dictator governments that supported terror, like Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez. The war on terror would skyrocket in costs and bring the troops home in defeat. Most of all, little villages like the one he’d grown up in would have to return to dog-sledding as their means of receiving supplies. If they received them at all.
Keeping the pipeline safe meant keeping the American way of life safe. Soldiers safe. Families fed.
Mac lowered his Ruger .308 and parted the brush with both gloved hands.
A gunshot broke the huffing of his breath, the breaking of branches. He heard a scream and stopped, then whirled and felt his pulse in his throat when crows scattered into the sky.
Not around the pipeline!
Mac dived after Hasid, blood rushing in his ears. Although more than fifty hunters had accidentally hit the pipeline over the years without incident, a shot from a .338 just might—
Another shot. This time it pinged against metal.
Mac ducked, plowing nearly headfirst into a tree. “Stop shooting!”
He crouched behind the larch and peered out, feeling sweat bead under his woolen cap. His feet felt clunky and chapped in his hiking boots; his body trembled under the layers of wool. So much for having some hang time with his brother. Brody would probably clock him next time Mac suggested they go hunting together.
“I didn’t do nothin’! Get away from me!” Hasid sounded drunk, his accent slurred. But after living in the country for the past ten years under the assumed name of Clark Bellows, Hasid had probably perfected redneck lingo.
“Throw down your weapon! I’m a fed
eral agent,” Mac shouted.
Nothing.
Mac peeked out, saw Hasid searching the forest. Peeling off his vest, Mac crept along a downed log, then angled toward Hasid. He schooled his breath but could hear Hasid’s labored breathing. Hasid scanned the forest where Mac had been, then beyond, toward the pipeline clearing. The sun glinted off the metal pipeline, and rays of heat rippled the air surrounding it.
A branch cracked.
Mac stiffened—only he hadn’t made the sound. His stomach dropped when he saw Brody hunkered down yet moving along the pipeline, peering into the forest.
Hasid raised his gun.
“No!” Mac launched himself at Hasid just as the gun reported. The recoil knocked him in the face even as he tackled Hasid.
Hasid elbowed him, thrashing.
Mac hung on, fighting to clear his head. He tasted blood running from his mouth or maybe his nose.
Hasid took out Mac’s breath with a jab to the ribs.
The gun went off again. Gulping for air, Mac grabbed the barrel and ripped it from Hasid’s grip.
Hasid rolled to his knees and swung at Mac’s face.
Mac dodged and muscled Hasid into a guillotine hold, one arm locked around his neck, squeezing off the blood supply to his brain. He wasn’t a fan of UFC wrestling for nothing. In a moment, Hasid would pass out if Mac could continue to hold.
Hasid slapped at Mac’s head, rung his ears.
Mac gritted his teeth and held on. He heard Hasid wheezing.
Still the man kicked, spending the last of his energy on flimsy punches. He finally slumped atop Mac, his body heavy.
Mac let him go, checked his breathing, then whipped off his bootlace and tied the terrorist’s hands. Above him, he heard rain begin to fall softly, wetting the leaves, the ground.
The sound filled Mac’s ears even as he propped Hasid up, slapped at his face. He stood, dread pooling in his stomach as realization rushed him.
No, not rain.
He held out his hand, and the blood of the earth fell from the sky. One drop, two—black, thick, and sticky.
Then the smell. Pungent, it turned his stomach as Mac tasted his worst fears. Running toward the clearing he saw the ground had already turned black and soggy. A geyser of oil plumed into the sky from a gash in the side of the pipeline.
He needed his radio.
He needed his four-wheeler.
He needed to get to the nearest pumping stations, tell them to close the valves.
“Brody!” He turned as he yelled his brother’s name. The fact that Brody hadn’t appeared to jump Hasid suddenly felt odd. … “Brody?” Oh, Lord, please—
His gaze caught on a shadow on the ground just inside the rim of forest. Brody.
“No!” Mac nearly fell as he scrambled toward his brother. He hit his knees as he turned him over.
Brody groaned, blood-drenched hands pressed against his gut.
Oh no. Mac’s breaths came one over another, panic shutting down every scrap of training. He pressed his hand against Brody’s wound. “Why did you follow me?”
Brody closed his eyes. “I’m in a bit of a barnie here, Mac.” His voice sounded strangely weak, and it took another swipe at Mac’s calm.
“I gotta get you some help.” Mac reached out, not sure how he’d carry his younger brother now that the man had surpassed him in size. Like true Scots, they weren’t small men, but Brody had taken after the McRae side, warriors down the line. He had the girth and muscle that made him the grappling champ of Deadhorse High.
Mac pulled Brody’s body up and put his arm over his shoulder. He fell trying to get Brody into his embrace, while oil rained down around them.
Brody cried out in a burst of agony. “I can’t. Go … go get the four-wheeler.” His face had turned chalky white. “Go.” He nearly pushed Mac.
Mac stumbled back, blinking at Brody. “Brody, I’m so—”
“Go!”
Aye. Mac whirled and raced down the pipeline clearing toward their encampment. His breath turned to razors in his chest, but panic pressed him through the pain. He slipped in the oil, falling face-first, and spit out a mouthful of filth as he scrambled back to his feet. Technically, no one, not even a subsistence hunter, had the right to hunt within five miles of the pipeline. But they’d been following elk and hadn’t realized how close they were until they motored right into the clearing, stumbling on a startled Al-Hasid as he checked his weapon. Al-Hasid had looked up, guilt on his face, and bolted.
Mac found the four-wheeler right where he’d sprung off it, and in seconds had it turned around and gunned it back toward Brody. He dug out his high-frequency two-way while he drove, now thankful he’d packed it, despite Brody’s ribbing.
“Hello, anyone!” He couldn’t remember what channel the EMS might be on or even pipeline security, so he scanned down the channels. “Hello? Please!”
“TAPS Security here. Identify please. Over.”
“Agent Sterling McRae, FBI. I have an injured hunter just north of the Kanuti River. Need assistance. Out.”
Crackle came over the line.
Mac slowed as he reached the oil-slicked area but plowed through, shielding his eyes as the oil continued to rain from the sky. “Hello?”
“Roger that. We’ll send assistance. Over.”
“No! I’m coming to you.” He stopped the ATV, stumbled off, and ran toward Brody. Thank the Lord, he was still breathing.
“Be advised that the nearest station is at Cross Creek, seventeen clicks northwest of the line. Over.”
Seventeen miles. Mac crouched beside Brody. Oil slicked his face, and his breathing seemed labored. Blood mingled with oil, and Mac hadn’t the first clue how much blood Brody had lost. Seventeen miles.
“Negative. He’ll never make it. We need an emergency extraction.” He glanced at the plume of oil. “And be advised that there is a leak in the pipeline at my position.”
Silence. Mac could imagine the powers spilling their coffee on their jumpsuits. “Say again, over.”
“A leak. Terrorist shot the pipeline. But I need medical assistance.”
“Give us your exact position. We’ll find you. Out.”
Mac glared at the two-way, as if he could somehow reach through it to throttle the dobbers on the other end of the line. “Need medical—”
Overhead, he heard a buzz, a low hum that anyone who’d lived in the bush for longer than a week would immediately identify.
A plane. A beautiful white-hulled bird with red stripes floating in the sky like a gift from heaven.
A Cessna, if he read his plane correctly, and such a bird could land on Dalton Highway, just a skip away.
And if God was on his side, that beautiful little bird would already be turned to the Fairbanks airport frequency, the same one he used during his flight-training days. “Hello? I’m talking to the Cessna flying over Cross Creek. Come in, please.”
Static.
“Please come in.”
“Sir, this is a channel authorized by the FAA for airtraffic control—”
“My brother’s been shot!” He could feel himself unraveling. “Please, will the Cessna overhead come in—?”
“This is November-two-three-seven-one-Lima; how can I help you?”
Yes, yes! “I have an injured hunter here. He’s in bad shape. I need a life flight to Fairbanks. Please, can you land on the Dalton? I’ll meet you.” He held the two-way against his forehead, trembling.
Static. Then, “That’s a negative. November-two-three-seven-one-Lima is enroute with another life flight. I’m sorry but I—”
“Please!”
The line went to static. The Cessna came into view. He stared at it as it flew over, a long moment when his heart stopped beating and turned to one gripping pain in his chest.
Then it vanished from view.
No. He felt sick, hollow.
“Mac?”
His brother opened his grease-covered eyes, reached out, and curled his fist weakly into Mac’s
jacket. “Get me outta here.”
Mac nodded, grabbed Brody by the collar, and dragged him over the slickened ground to the four-wheeler. He could still hear the sound of hope dying in the distance.
As he draped Brody over the back of the ATV, wincing as Brody groaned, he made a promise.
If his brother died, he’d never forgive that pilot.
“Brother of FBI Agent Killed in Freak Accident.”
Andee MacLeod read the headline slowly. And again. Then closed her eyes and felt guilt wrap its sticky tentacles around her heart. Choices. Her life felt defined by them, by regret and confusion.
She scanned the article, wincing at the part that mentioned a possible aborted aerial rescue. She rolled up the newspaper, picked up her cold coffee, and dumped them into the trash as she exited the hospital cafeteria. What that reporter didn’t know was that she’d been responsible for two deaths that day … indirectly, at least.
The woman she’d been life-flighting had suffered another massive coronary while Andee circled the airport for a third time, waiting for the weather to clear.
Andee stopped in at emergency services, waving to the night nurse. “I’m going home. I’ve got my pager.” The nurse nodded and Andee stepped out into the cool August night air. The summer high of eternal sun and energy had mellowed into normal days of sunrise and sunset. Soon, however, the sun would refuse to crest into the terrafirma over Alaska, and the night would steal into the nooks and crannies of life. In two months, before the deep freeze, Andee would head south, toward sunshine and her mother. No, toward her real family— Micah, Dannette, Sarah, Conner, soon Lacey, and maybe someday Will. Team Hope, her SAR pals felt like family—the kind who loved you despite your weaknesses or your failures.
Brother of FBI agent … the man’s panicked voice over the radio hovered in Andee’s thoughts, slicing through quiet moments to bring her back to that moment when she’d had to choose. She’d set down on Dalton Highway a number of times before. But she had weighed the life of a mother of four with a hunter’s—and kept altitude.
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