Page 131 of Rescuing You

He added a baseball cap, wincing as it pressed on his wound, then slid on sunglasses he kept in his pack. He looked in the mirror. Gone was the old man who’d been shot.

Now he looked like a fortysomething American. Which was exactly what he was.

The thought had him turning to Derrick. “How did you know it was me, in the car?”

Derrick shook his head, and Michael saw what he’d missed before. His brother’s red-rimmed eyes. Pale skin. Fear and worry etched in the lines around his mouth. “I don’t know.” He rubbed a hand down his jaw. “I just… You were acting so weird on the phone and in your texts. When I heard the gunshots, I just knew… And then I saw you in the car, slumped over and gray, and everything about you was wrong, but I… I don’t know how. But I knew it was you. And I thought you were dead.” His voice cracked.

“I’m okay, man.” He grabbed his brother’s arm. “I’m okay. Thank you for being here and for…all this.”

Derrick nodded, shaking off emotion he’d not quite managed to hold at bay.

“I have to go,” Michael said.

“What?” Bryan’s voice was too loud. “Dad would kill us if⁠—”

“Dad’s not here. I have to get her back.” He breathed through his own emotion, tamping it down. He needed to think. “I can’t lose her now.”

Bryan bent to retrieve the items Derrick had scattered all over the floor. The blanket. Clothes. Weapons. Two laptops. Multiple burner phones. He shoved them into Michael’s backpack. “We’ll help you.” Bryan shot Derrick a look. “Right?”

“Of course. What do we do?”

No way was Michael putting his brothers in danger.

But right now, he needed a place to think. He needed quiet and food and water—and to avoid the police he figured were swarming outside.

“Can we get on the plane, maybe…park it for a while?”

“I’ll claim mechanical trouble.” Derrick wrapped a hand around Michael’s upper arm. “Thing is, there’s a storm coming. If we wait too long, we’re not going to be able to take off.”

“You two should go. I’ll get the girls and find another way off⁠—”

“Forget it⁠—!”

“—Are you crazy?” Derrick asked.

He would argue, but if circumstances were reversed, he wouldn’t leave them either, no matter what they said. “Okay, then. You two go—for now. Just mill around outside for a minute. If anybody asks if you saw the guy who was shot, tell him you tried to help him”—Michael gestured to Derrick’s bloody shirt—“but he took off.”

“What are you going to do?” Bryan asked.

“People had to see us come in here,” Derrick added.

And yet, nobody had followed. This airport was small, and there hadn’t been very many people when they’d walked in, which, he assumed, was the private aircraft portion of the terminal.

So, probably not. But they’d have seen Derrick with the gunshot victim.

“Tell them I left,” Michael said. “Point…them some direction. Tell them you tried to help the guy, but he refused help and took off. You went to the bathroom to get cleaned up.”

“Yeah, okay.” Derrick and Bryan left, Bryan carrying Michael’s huge backpack for him.

Michael closed himself in a stall and sat on the toilet.

Not the most sanitary place to rest, but standing, talking to his brothers, and pretending to be fine had taken its toll. The room was spinning.

He waited five minutes, praying for strength. For wisdom and guidance and Leila and Jasmine and help.

He needed help.

And to think straight.