Never Say Goodbye Read online

  Never Say Goodbye

  Global Guardians book 2

  Susan May Warren

  Praise for Susan May Warren

  Praise for Christy Award winner Susan May Warren and her novels

  “Susie writes a delightful story… A few hours of reading doesn’t get better.”

  —Dee Henderson, #1 CBA bestselling author of the O’Malley series

  “Susan Warren is definitely a writer to watch!”

  —Deborah Raney, award-winning author of A Vow to Cherish and Over the Waters

  “Warren’s characters are well-developed, and she knows how to create a first rate contemporary romance.”

  —Library Journal on Tying the Knot

  “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 Leaves of Hope

  “Susan’s characters deliver love and laughter and a solid story with every book…a great read!”

  —Lori Copeland, bestselling author of the Brides of the West series on The Perfect Match

  “…authentic detail…plunked me into Russian life. The result was a dynamic read!”

  —Colleen Coble, bestselling author of Dangerous Depths on Nadia

  “…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 BOOKclub on Someone to Watch Over Me

  “Someone to Watch Over Me is an excellent novel that will keep you guessing until the very end.”

  —FaithfulReader.com

  About Never Say Goodbye

  He has 24 hours to find the woman he loves in the wilds of Siberia.

  When politics goes south and the leaders of a Russian coup decide to oust all foreigners, former Russian Cobra Captain Roman Novik discovers the woman he loves is out of touch in the backwoods of Siberia. But if he doesn't find her before the authorities do, she'll be arrested...and he'll be branded an enemy of the state.

  But American medical missionary Dr. Sarai Curtiss is not about to leave--not with an epidemic on her hands that is taking the lives of Russia's children. It will be a race against time--and wills--to save lives, including their own. And the biggest casualty of all just might be their hearts.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Discussion Questions

  What’s Next?

  A Note from Susie May

  Also by Susan May Warren

  For Your glory, Lord.

  Prologue

  You always have to be a hero, don’t you? It seemed unfair that, at the most inopportune moments, Sarai Curtiss’s accusations could split Roman’s mind like lightning, cutting right to the fears that lurked in the darkest corners of his heart. And his raw and bleeding bare feet churning up the pavement drilled that question into his soul.

  No, he didn’t have to be a hero—just the guy who got it right, who went the distance, especially when it had to do with issues like world peace and international freedom. And nabbing a sweaty, six-foot-two Russian smuggler named Gennadi Smirnov.

  At least, Roman hoped the guy he was chasing was Gennadi. The man, dressed in typical Russian-on-holiday attire—a striped dress shirt, cutoff Bermudas, dark socks, and tennis shoes and carrying a backpack—had taken one look at Roman, innocently slurping the ear off a Mickey Mouse ice-cream stick, and bolted through the crowd.

  Now, wasn’t that interesting?

  Roman had no choice but to ditch the ice cream and his flip-flops, take off in hot pursuit, and pray he wasn’t going to take down a day trader from Jersey.

  Still, it wasn’t every day he, a Russian FSB captain who hunted mafia smugglers for a living, spotted what looked like one of Russia’s most wanted strolling out of the Reflections of China exhibit at Disney’s Epcot. He wasn’t about to lose the rat in the beer halls of Germany, the pagodas of Japan, or even the pines of Canada.

  Except Roman had a sick feeling in his gut that Slimeball Smirnov was heading for the American exhibit.

  Deep inside, Russians possessed a keen sense of irony.

  Roman dodged a family of four pushing a rented double stroller and barely missed being speared by a replica of the Eiffel Tower. Shocked play-by-plays littered his wake as he zagged through the crowd, leaped a planter, and nearly took out a slushy stand. “Perestan, Smirnov! Stop!”

  Gennadi didn’t even slow.

  Roman shot a look behind him. Yes, thank you, his pal David was on his tail. Except the vacationing Delta Force captain didn’t look happy. In fact, if Roman didn’t know better, he would have thought David might be ticked at him.

  He’d explain his actions later.

  Five months ago, Roman had gone fist to fist with Smirnov on his home turf, Khabarovsk, Far East Russia.

  And after Roman had been dragged through the icy Amur River and had wrestled the pirate on the bottom of a fishing skiff, Smirnov had jumped ship, leaving behind his baggage—a silver canister. A heavy silver canister. Twenty kilos, without a doubt. As Roman screwed off the lid, internal warnings had buzzed. Warnings that seeded his nightmares—nightmares fertilized by Roman’s day job of hunting the terrorists who made a living parceling out Russia’s only remaining commodities, namely weapons, for cold Western cash—aka bucksov.

  For a second, as Roman stared inside the container, time had stopped. Saliva pooled in his throat, and his hands felt clammy.

  Paste. Or what looked like it. Odorless. Silvery white.

  Probably radioactive, even in minimal doses.

  Twenty-five kilos of Highly Enriched Uranium—HEU. The fuel for a nuclear bomb. Another Russian commodity for sale.

  He’d put the lid back on the canister, feeling painfully light-headed.

  Thankfully, all his tests for infection had come back negative…so far.

  Since then, Roman had dedicated his life to not only finding Smirnov, but unearthing his source. Roman had a sick feeling he’d find answers buried deep inside the former Soviet Union, namely at one of the untended, decommissioned reactors. But the source wasn’t the biggest problem.

  It was the supplier. And how did said supplier get his mitts on the nearly eight hundred kilos of still lethal HEU stockpiled in the former Soviet Union?

  However, for the past week, Roman had left his questions happily, blissfully behind as he vacationed in Orlando with his Moscow University pal, American David Curtiss. They both knew their friendship wasn’t easily stomached by the powers that be, and they’d had to submit to more than thorough scrutiny. Still, to Roman it was worth the at-a-distance surveillance and guarded conversations to hang out with a guy who still felt like a brother-in-arms. The fact that David shared—no, mentored—Roman’s Christian walk made the vacation more than relaxing.

  Roman might even call it rejuvenating. A guy who spent most of his time tracking mafia barons and weapons pirates needed a dose of eternal perspective to keep him on task. Thus, it seemed divinely appointed that Roman might spot his nemesis from across the ocean—Smirnov—right under his nose. Too bad Roman was dressed in cargo sh
orts and a muscle shirt. With no weapon save the neon necklace he’d purchased for the laser light show that evening.

  Thankfully, Disney had some of the best security in the world.

  As Roman dodged another couple and leaped over the leash tethering their children to their wrists, he could hear said security gathering momentum behind him. He’d consider them backup. As long as they remembered he was one of the good guys.

  Don’t lose Smirnov.

  He saw the guy whiz into the American exhibit, a replica of an old town courthouse.

  Tochna! How he hated when he was right. Kind of.

  Roman sped into the courtyard, nearly taking out a woman with a tray of milkshakes and hot dogs, and flew into the building.

  Cool air. It raised gooseflesh on his skin as he stared in horror at the packed lines leading to the food counter. The smell of french fries and the buzz of excited children echoed off the white tile. Roman’s panic filled his chest as he scanned the lines.

  No Smirnov. Roman beelined to the far door.

  Smirnov could be bellying up for a double cheeseburger, O-rings, and a chocolate shake, and Roman wouldn’t have a hope of spotting him.

  Roman scrambled through the crowd and out into the foyer, gripped his knees, and hauled in searing breaths.

  He saw David enter the building. His dark gaze caught Roman’s and he stalked his direction. His expression didn’t bode well for the rest of their vacation. Or Roman’s future tourist visa applications. He mentally braced himself as he stood and scanned the tourists. Smirnov had to be in that crowd.

  Or…Roman saw the end of a tour line disappear into a movie theater. He whirled and scooted into the darkened room.

  A 360-degree domed screen, trapped air, and a blanket of darkness descended over him. The crowd was hushed, many people lined up against walls, most clumped in the middle. Roman walked through them, glancing up at faces, then staring at shoes, socks.

  A family of six sat on the floor right in front of him. He nearly tripped over them, mumbled his apologies, stood and turned slowly as the screen lit up.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t—”

  Spotting a far door closing, Roman heard the click and the soft whoosh of spring-loaded hinges. He sprinted toward it, ignoring the attendant, and caught Smirnov racing along the back hallway.

  “Perestan!”

  Smirnov glanced over his shoulder. Smirked.

  It was the smirk that Roman remembered later as he tackled the guy into the World Showcase Lagoon.

  Kicking to the surface, Smirnov landed a blow to his adversary’s jaw that made Roman’s head spin. Two hundred fifty pounds of “wanna-get-away,” Smirnov put up a fight that left Roman just a little glad that David hadn’t asked questions and simply dove in after them.

  Smirnov roared as David and Roman hauled him ashore. Roman threw him on the deck, kneed him in the back, and twisted his hand back in a submission hold.

  Breathing hard, David sat down next to him. “I’m assuming you have a really good reason for tackling this tourist. One that isn’t going to land us both in lockup for the duration of your vacation. Or worse, deport you in your shorts and bare feet.”

  Roman tightened his hold on Smirnov and patted him down. “Trust me.”

  He unearthed a soggy Epcot ticket, a disposable camera, and a now out-of-commission cell phone.

  “What are you looking for?” David asked as he climbed to his feet and wrung out his T-shirt. “Did he take your five-day pass?” He looked down at Roman and grinned.

  And just like that, Smirnov’s smirk filled Roman’s mind. The backpack.

  A shiver of fear crept down Roman’s body. He leaned close to Smirnov, who curled his lip in disgust.

  “Where is it?” Roman asked in Russian.

  David’s smile vanished. He went very still.

  Smirnov laughed.

  “Where is it, Smirnov?” Roman asked again, this time adding some oomph to his question by digging Smirnov’s jaw into the pavement. David moved closer. Roman wasn’t sure if that was for his own protection—or Smirnov’s.

  Back off, David. Roman might not be wearing his black-and-gold FSB COBRA patch, but he was in charge of this interrogation.

  Roman tightened his grip on Smirnov’s hand and was rewarded with a pain-filled grunt. “You’d better hope that backpack only has souvenirs and a bottle of juice, pal, or I swear, I’ll turn you over to the Americans. And I’m telling you, they’re taking this war on terror thing seriously.”

  David stared at him. “What’s in the bag, Roma?”

  In his mind’s eye, right behind the reality of happy families watching the Festival of Fantasy parade, Roman heard screams, saw charred bodies and fire spitting out the remains of the Guardians of the Galaxy: Cosmic Rewind building and sparking the fireworks now floating in the center of the Lagoon. He could see the headlines—Epcot Bombed, Hundreds Killed—and the resulting investigation that led right back to the shores of Khabarovsk and a botched arrest, one with his name attached.

  For a moment, he felt the spur of bittersweet thankfulness that Sarai Curtiss was safely tucked away on the other side of the planet, in a village on the backside of Russia.

  Even if he’d never see her again.

  He shook away the thought, frustrated that she so easily slid into his brain. Just because he was wet, angry, and facing the brutal realities of new millennium terrorist tactics didn’t mean he had to surrender to the realm of what-ifs.

  Sarai wasn’t going to be more than a blip on his radar. Ever. Again.

  Then again, he’d clung to that blip like a sailor might a light across a black sea.

  Because, while he didn’t always have to be the world’s hero, he longed to be Sarai’s—a woman who had once changed his world with her smile. And while the reasons he dove headfirst into trouble sometimes seemed fuzzy, he knew he had his eyes fixed on one hope—that someday God would intersect their paths. And this time, Roman wouldn’t let her walk away. Not, at least, until he knew why she wanted him out of her world.

  Roman resisted the urge to wipe the smirk off Smirnov’s face with his knuckles and swallowed against a wall of frustration. “Cuff him,” he said to the round of security guards now huffing their way toward the spectacle. “If you do an INTERPOL search, you’ll find a warrant already posted for his arrest.”

  Roman let the Disney guards take Smirnov and turned to David. “Who do we need to call to evacuate Epcot?”

  For a sunny day, and despite the tan David had cultivated while attending the Food and Wine Festival, he turned a fine shade of chalky white.

  1

  By Sarai Curtiss’s best analysis, Sasha Bednov had less than twenty-four hours to live. Just long enough for his mother to watch him slip into a coma, for his governor-candidate father to win the election, and for Sarai to hear the door of opportunity close with a soft and definitive click.

  So much for trying to ease suffering and save lives in the vast wasteland of Siberia, Russia.

  She’d trade everything she’d worked for over the past two years for the right medicines to save this thirteen-year-old boy’s life. And the countless others she’d tried to treat.

  She took his limp hand and pressed it against her forehead, frustration pushing to the surface, burning tears into her eyes. She closed them, fighting a whimper. Sasha lay in the bed, his pallor gray, his shallow breathing giving off a sickly sweet odor. Maybe if she’d gotten here earlier. Then again, an earlier diagnosis would have meant intervention. Drugs, dialysis, maybe a transplant.

  Not a chance of any of that in a country that still couldn’t manage indoor plumbing for seventy percent of its inhabitants.

  How did an otherwise healthy teen die of acute renal failure?

  She heard conversation outside Sasha’s bedroom door, where bodyguards and a maid murmured platitudes to his mother. Sarai laid down his hand, ran hers over his smooth skin. Maybe, if she was in Moscow at the International Clinic…definitely if they were
back home, at Johns Hopkins. Sasha would be heading home in a week, pink cheeks, a smile in those blue eyes.

  Sometimes, despite her years invested in the backside of Russia, she hated the Motherland. Loved the people. Hated the lack of resources.

  Loved the friendships.

  Hated her own limitations.

  All she prayed for was that God would use her medical expertise to minister to the lost in Smolsk, and to be His tool, His girl. Instead she got heartache and failure. It made a girl wonder what she might be doing wrong.

  She rose, hearing the muffled sobs from the next room. She stood above Sasha’s bed, her throat thick. Genye was out there, Bible in his hand, hopefully speaking words of comfort to Julia Bednova. But what comfort, really, could he offer an atheist who had to say goodbye to her only son? Her only child.

  Pain centered in Sarai’s chest and she fought the grip of despair. God, please…intervene.

  She opened the door, stepped out into the tiny hall. Even for a Russian politician’s palatial flat, the penthouse apartment felt cramped. Sterile. Fake plants hung from the gold wallpapered walls, framing a beveled mirror. Under it, a mahogany-veneered side table held a Kazakhstani vase. On the black velvet settee in the next room, Julia sat hunched over, her head in her soft, manicured hands, looking every inch the trophy wife in her size four turquoise suit, her alligator stilettos. But her broken expression and the trails of mascara down her sculpted face as she looked up told Sarai the truth.

  Grief would wedge through the hairline cracks in her composure and furrow scars that would mark Julia for eternity.