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  Flee the Night

  Copyright © 2005 by Susan May Warren. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of woman © 2004 by Mitsuru Yamaguchi/Photonica. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of man copyright © 2004 by Creasource/Picturequest. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of forest © 2004 by Digital Vision. All rights reserved.

  Edited by Lorie Popp

  Designed by Cathy Bergstrom

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Warren, Susan, date

  Flee the night / Susan May Warren.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4143-0086-3 (sc)

  ISBN-10: 1-4143-0086-7 (sc)

  I. Title.

  PS3623.A865F58 2005

  8136—dc22

  2004023139

  * * *

  Printed in the United States of America

  12 11 10 09 08 07

  8 7 6 5 4 3

  FOR YOUR GLORY, LORD.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Escape to Morning

  Acknowledgments

  God again gifted me with the blessing of co-laborers to see this project come to fruition. My deepest gratitude goes to the following people.

  Doug Satterly, a generous soldier whom I met on the plane to Kalispell. Thank you for letting me quiz you for two-plus hours, for your candidness and your advice. Your insights into the men of the Special Forces helped me craft Micah and Conner. May God keep you safe.

  Olaf Growald, rescuer extraordinaire, in so many ways. Thank you for looking at these SAR scenes and helping me get them right. Any mistakes I made were mine alone. Thank you for always being “on His shift.”

  David Lund, for your thorough descriptions of Internet security and for making them understandable to a non-techie. Again, any mistakes I made were mine alone.

  Tracey Bateman, for your stellar critiques and insights into Missouri. Beyond that, thank you for being iron on iron. For the times you don’t take me seriously … and the times you do. I’m proud to know you and Rusty.

  Anne Goldsmith, for knowing how to help me craft a story—you say, “Fix this” in the nicest way! And for liking Jim Micah and the entire Team Hope cast. You help make dreams come true.

  Lorie Popp, for smoothing out this story into a seamless, polished piece. You have the touch! Thank you especially for helping me rename my 1980s calculator.

  Andrew Warren, for poking holes in my plots, then helping me restitch them. You’re my Jim Micah, and I’m so glad I waited for you.

  David Warren, for the day you sat in my office and astounded me with your spiritual insights into Isaiah 61. The metaphor of the dungeon belongs to you. Thank you also for making me lunch. I might starve without you.

  Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress. He brought them out of darkness and the deepest gloom and broke away their chains.

  PSALM 107:13-14, NIV

  Chapter 1

  THE PAST COULDN’T have picked a worse time to find her.

  Trapped in seat 15A on an Amtrak Texas Eagle chugging through the Ozarks at four on a Sunday morning, Lacey … Galloway … Montgomery—what was her current last name?—tightened her leg lock around the computer bag at her feet. She dug her fingers through the cotton knit of her daughter’s sweater as she watched the newest passenger to their car find his seat. Lanky, with olive skin and dark eyes framed in wire-rimmed glasses, it had to be Syrian assassin Ishmael Shavik who sat down, fidgeted with his leather jacket, then impaled her with a dark glance.

  She couldn’t stifle the shiver that rattled clear to her toes. Why hadn’t she listened to divine wisdom fifteen-some years ago and stayed at home instead of running after adventure? Lacey forced breath through her constricting chest. She hadn’t hoped to outrun her mistakes forever, but why today with Emily watching?

  Lacey pried her fingers out of Emily’s sweater and laced her hands together in her lap, cringing at her weakness. She’d been taught not to give away emotions, liabilities, secrets. But she’d die before she’d let them harm a hair on Em’s head.

  If only she’d possessed such an impulse seven years ago.

  Tightening her jaw, she stared out the window. The Amtrak hustled north in the murky dawn, the Missouri oak, red buckeye, and hickory trees flanking the tracks—gray, silent sentries to her ill fate.

  Oh, please, not here. Not now. She and Emily were so close to finding peace. Now that the Ex-6 program had met National Security Agency (NSA) approval, the nightmare seemed to be over. After this little time-out and escape with her daughter to Chicago, Lacey would fine-tune the encryption/decryption program, then hand it over with a sigh of relief and the sense that she’d finally found a way to atone for her mistakes. Never again would the field agents be without a way to secure their communications. No more ambushes due to intercepted messages. No more corrupted information.

  Lives—and national secrets—safe.

  And finally, too, a safe home for Emily. Please.

  She didn’t know to whom she might be addressing her plea. God in heaven hadn’t looked her way for over a decade—not that she blamed Him. She was wretchedly on her own.

  Around her, innocents slept—families, singles, the petite bourgeoisie voyaging to Chicago or beyond. Wealthy romantics above her were in compartments, perhaps for nostalgia or novelty. Lacey didn’t have a romantic bone left in her body, despite the aroma of a dining car, the charisma of faux leather seats, or even the hypnotic locomotive pulse. She didn’t have the energy or time for it, even if the errant inclination to be held in a man’s arms haunted her in the lonely hours of the predawn. Then again, it wasn’t just any man’s embrace that haunted her.

  Lacey rubbed her forehead and considered her options. It hadn’t been so long ago that she’d memorized the exits and the players of every room she entered, but hope had smudged her reflexes. Ishmael sat two seats away, smack-dab in the middle of the car, blocking a desperate sprint down the aisle. The forest hurtled by at breakneck speed, discouraging a flying dismount.

  Lacey stuck her hand in her poc
ket to rifle for her switchblade and brushed against Emily’s worn Beanie bear and only confidant that she named Boppy. Lacey had sent the child the Beanie Baby from Seattle—she still remembered the neon lights striping her hotel room, mocking her as she wrote a note to her toddler daughter, secreted in Aunt Janie’s care.

  Life wasn’t fair.

  She found the knife and tucked it under her thigh as she stole another glance at her killer. It sent a decade-old threat through her head: You can’t run from me.

  She blew out a breath and fought her climbing pulse as she clung to her training. Surprise. Focus. Determination. These things would help her flee, keep her alive.

  What about Em? She longed to run her fingers across her daughter’s face, over the smattering of freckles on her high cheekbones, then through the short curly blonde hair that, like John’s, simply refused to obey a brush or a comb. Emily smelled of the fabric softener her aunt Janie used in the laundry and of soap from her pre-departure bath. Curled into the fetal position, the six-year-old leaned her head against the dark pane, drooling on the pillow tucked under her shoulder. Her breathing seemed shallow, uneven, as if she were caught in the throes of a nightmare. But it was only the consequences of a desperate and fatal mistake—one for which Lacey could never, ever forgive herself.

  Forgiveness wouldn’t help her now, anyway. Not when her murderer stared at her like a slit-eyed wolf.

  The air felt weighted with the slumber of passengers—some stirring, others in full collapse. The quiet pressed Lacey into her seat, made her heartbeat thunder in her ears. Fatigue played with her fear, pitting it against hope. Perhaps the man who had boarded this train wasn’t the same one who had threatened to slit her throat from ear to ear. Frank Hillman’s long arm of revenge.

  Lacey had been careful. So careful she’d lost herself years ago in the torrent of aliases and the blur of constant movement. She often wondered if she would ever, even if the nightmare ended, find her way home.

  Who was she kidding? She couldn’t go home when her mistakes branded her like an ugly, festering T for traitor on her forehead. But if she somehow escaped the stigma of being an accused murderer, she might return to the family farm, a place that still held secrets and hopes. She’d start over with Emily and build a new life. A peaceful life. An absolved life.

  Yeah, right. If she kept supposing, she might as well dream that she hadn’t derailed her life seven years ago on a similar Sunday morning in an armpit country south of Russia … hadn’t ignored the urgings of God or whatever impulse had made her pause briefly in the hotel as John loaded his Ruger pistol.

  “I want you to stay here,” he’d said. “And trust no one.” John Montgomery always had the bluest eyes, even in memory. Ocean blue, with flecks of pure sunshine that melted her into a senseless puddle. She’d fallen for those magnetic eyes first and his idealism second.

  “No,” she’d said, shaking free of the hesitation, propelled by that same naive zeal that made the couple famous in the company. John and Lacey Montgomery, dynamic duo, spies of the spectacular new era when industrial espionage reigned in the vacuum of cold-war intrigues. “I’m coming with you.”

  He hadn’t argued; she often blamed him for that omission. It seemed easier somehow. Why didn’t you stop me?

  There were moments, ethereal seconds, when she imagined spinning back in time, past the mistakes in Kazakhstan, past the choices in Iraq, the years at MIT, past even the wedding of the century in Ashleyville, Kentucky. It reeled back to an October day in high school twenty-two years ago, when she’d tripped off the football bleachers, clarinet in her grip, and fell into the oh-so-ample embrace of the wide receiver for the Ashleyville Eagles.

  Jim Micah.

  In those seconds when her future loomed blank and glorious before her, life scrolled differently. She chose more wisely, with her heart instead of her adrenaline. In this future, she stayed in Micah’s arms. She clung to his steadiness, his rock-solid emotions that seemed firm footing in the face of danger. She would learn to read the emotions in his eyes and take a chance on heartbreak. And she’d never, ever let another man woo her away with the tease of a tastier, more vivid life.

  Then the nano-dreams would vanish and she’d return to whatever bus, train, or airplane she’d landed on, head bumping against the seat, wondering how long it would take for the NSA to advance her a few more bucks.

  She swept her attention casually across the travelers opposite the aisle. Asians. A family of overseas tourists, judging by the way they clutched their bags to their chests and eyed the other passengers. She connected with an elderly man, his gray hair in high-and-tight spikes around his round wrinkled face. He looked at her with such disdain, she wondered if he could see through her to her ugly past and abhor her for her mistakes.

  He wouldn’t be the only one.

  Ishmael chose that moment to clear his throat, as if hoping to arrest her attention.

  Lacey stiffened and forced her gaze to the carpeted floor. Maybe she should throw her body over Emily and beg for their lives in Arabic. Or grab Ex-6—the one thing that could redeem her lost soul—tuck Emily under her arm, and bolt.

  Instead, what if she left Emily in the safe hands of the gentleman sitting across from her? No one but Lacey knew that the little girl belonged to her. With the fake name on Em’s ticket not even remotely similar to her real name, the six-year-old blonde could be anyone’s daughter. The man appeared to care for her daughter, the way his eyes darted to her, a worried knot in his wide brow, as if he were some sort of private bodyguard. He’d even purchased Emily an ice-cream cone at the station in Little Rock. Still, with the crazies out there on the prowl for innocents like Emily, it might be safer to attempt a flying leap into the forest with the train going 50 mph. Suddenly the ice-cream-cone treat felt downright … creepy.

  What about a conductor? She could give him Emily’s backpack, along with Janie’s address and telephone number. Then Janie would become Mama again—a thousand times better than any mama Lacey had ever been.

  Lacey winced. She was a horrible mother to be plotting her daughter’s abandonment. Bitterness lined her throat at the injustice of having to relive her mistakes in a million private sacrifices. But Emily would be better off alive and in the arms of Lacey’s sister than watching her mother be murdered. Or dying as a victim in the tussle. Lacey would do anything to make sure she didn’t cost any more lives.

  She always knew she’d lose Emily to pay penance for her foolishness. Somehow it seemed heart-wrenchingly fair.

  If only Micah were here. That thought drilled a hole so deep through Lacey’s chest she nearly gasped. Yeah, right.

  He’d be lining up behind Ishmael for kill rights.

  Movement, a sigh from the nemesis in seat 13D.

  Lacey’s heart lodged in her throat as she fingered the six-inch blade hidden under her leg. Habit dictated its presence. The metal handle pinched the bunched flesh of her fingers.

  Ishmael rose, glanced past her, as if trying to mentally distance himself from his prey, then staggered down the aisle. Lacey’s other hand clenched the armrest.

  Ishmael had filled out in presence, if not in girth, and added gusto to his swagger. His gaunt face betrayed more lines, his eyes harder as he stared forward, as if he didn’t recognize the woman he’d framed for murder. Lacey froze, her instincts draining from her body.

  He bumped down the aisle.…

  She eased the knife out, hid it in her palm. Held her breath.

  He passed by her without even a nod.

  Her breath drained, her heart crammed between her ribs. So maybe she’d been imagining—

  The train shuddered, a ripple of pain along the body of steel, then a gut-twisting squeal of metal on metal. Lacey grabbed the seat rests. The passageway lights strobed and died. “What—!”

  Her heart bucked as the car lurched, jumped. She reached for Emily but snared thin air as momentum yanked Lacey from her seat. Her body wrestled with gravity and a visceral scream. The
computer bag walloped her on the chin. Blood filled her mouth.

  “Em!” She slammed against bodies, hitting her hip hard, arms flailing. “Em!” Around her, terror-filled voices competed for significance. Explosions pummeled the compartment. Lacey instinctively covered her head. “Emily!”

  Metal screeched against forest or perhaps rail. Smoke. As she pitched through the twisting carriage, Lacey groped for purchase on anything—an armrest, a seat cushion, her daughter.

  She landed with a bone-jarring slap. Hot pain exploded up her arm and into her brain. She sprawled broken, breathless, cocooned in bodies. “Emily.” The stench of fear filled her nose, choking her. Her breath came like fire.

  Then darkness.

  “You have to trust me, Brian. I promise I won’t drop you.” If anything, Jim Micah kept his promises. They’d have to pry his rigor-mortised grip from the kid before he would let him fall, even if every muscle in his body begged for reprieve.

  So maybe Micah wasn’t 100 percent recovered from the scalpel and loss of a few organs. He wasn’t going to let his battle with the six-letter silent killer—cancer—cause him to endanger this kid’s life. Not while he still had breath in his scarred lungs.

  “Hold on to my neck,” he said, and Brian’s scrawny arms tightened around him. Micah felt the panic-driven heartbeat of a twelve-year-old pound against his chest. “Hey, buddy, calm down. Slow your breathing. You’re going to be fine.”

  Buried deep in the Pit—a wild, uncharted cave redolent of clammy basement and bat guano, sunk in the hills of eastern Tennessee—Micah tried to believe his own words. But Brian and his two fellow campers had been trapped here for the better part of twelve hours with nothing more than T-shirts and shorts and a fifty-five degree hypothermic slumber. As the darkness ate the flimsy light from their lithium-lit helmets and turned time into knots, Micah didn’t want to guess which side might be winning.

  Sarah Nation, a tall NYC paramedic, worked silently beside him, fixing the splint on Brian’s leg where the fifteen-foot fall had resulted in an ugly landing. Micah cringed at Brian’s scream when Sarah moved the limb to immobilize it.