Escape to Morning by Susan May Warren Page A

mysterious hazel eyes would tug at all his vulnerabilities. He might be saved and sanctified, but he was 100 percent male and had experiences lurking in his heart that grappled with his desires to be God’s man. Even if he wasn’t quite sure what that looked like, he knew it wouldn’t resemble anything like his old SOP. He’d do well to put Miss Dannette I-Hate-Reporters Lundeen out of his mind and focus on finding the package he’d been sent to Moose Bend to unearth.
    Amina .
    Will wiped his hands on his pants, pocketed his cell phone, and headed toward the house. Despite the way his mission rubbed his conscience raw, he had to complete it. Jeff ’s words rang in his head: Sit tight . Oh yeah, sure. And what?
    Wait for Hayata to learn his habits, maybe pick him off with a Russian-made Dragunov sniper rifle while he was exiting the Java Moose, holding his early morning latte? Hardly. There was a reason they’d hired him out of Special Forces.
    He rushed inside the cabin and pulled a duffel bag out of the closet.
    If Hayata had a package waiting, it was time for the postman to pay a visit.

Chapter 5
    FADIMA’S GROOM WAS six foot two with midnight black eyes, two silver teeth, and a smile that looked more jackal than human. Bakym circled Fadima like she might be prey, his eyes roaming over her as he listened to the report from her two captors.
    Fadima clutched her backpack to her chest. A buzz, produced by twenty hours with little sleep, simmered beneath her skin, and she blinked, trying to get a fix on her surroundings in the dim moonlight. They’d driven through the Canadian border control without so much as a raised eyebrow, something she attributed to both her American looks and her driver’s suddenly smooth smile and accentless speech.
    Beyond the border, America turned shaggy and menacing, the forest looming dark and shadows jutting across the highway as they drove in silence. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Perhaps bright lights, a McDonald’s, or even a grocery store. She had spent many sleepless nights conjuring up what it would feel like to live free, without having Hayata count her steps or hover as she visited the market. For her own good, they’d said. She was practically royalty.
    A royal sheep intended for slaughter.
    They’d finally cut off a road twenty kilometers or so south of the border and driven through the woods on a rutted dirt road until they emerged by a weedy yard ringing a small unlit house. Fadima hadn’t needed prodding to get out of the vehicle—she nearly gulped in the fresh air, despite her dread. Maybe here her protector, Hafiz, would find her. The air, scented with an unfamiliar crispness, lifted her hair and buoyed her spirit as she trekked to the house. The door squealed when she entered, raising gooseflesh, as if in warning tendered by watchful spirits.
    Inside the house, the smells of cigarette smoke, grease, and mold obliterated the hope churned up by the breeze. The floor squeaked as a man appeared from what looked like a hallway. He stood in the middle of the room, flanked by two fraying, broken sofas, and gestured for her to approach.
    Fadima collected the last fragments of courage and obeyed, recognizing Bakym from the photograph her father had showed her. Only this Bakym didn’t smile, and he emanated the odors of sweat and vodka that made her blood curdle. She stood, then, her heart thudding through her chest, as Bakym surveyed his newest operator, his bride-to-be, the daughter of General Erkan Nazar.
    â€œWelcome to Camp Azmi,” said Bakym finally, but his tone hinted at disgust. “I will inform your father that you have arrived.” He had a tight, low voice, and he stopped before her, his feet planted, his hands clasped behind him. He wore black jeans and a gray sweatshirt that did nothing to hide the outline of his arms, his chest. She’d heard of his physical exploits, namely his