Page 72 of Rescuing You

Leila’s pride tempted her to refuse, but this was a battle she would lose—and it was not worth fighting. She sat and focused on the air entering and exiting her lungs.

She was alive. For now, she and Jasmine were alive, and there was hope.

Poor Splat. He was gone, and it was her fault. All of this was her fault.

She shouldn’t have gotten complacent in Munich. She should have traveled farther from home.

And then when she was caught, she should have stayed in Iraq. Instead, she’d alerted Michael, putting him in danger. And Jasmine. And now Splat.

The sight of him, face down and unmoving, had her swallowing. She turned away, breathed through her nose, trying desperately not to expel the contents of her stomach.

Another man climbed into the cargo area and dragged Splat to the edge of the metal floor. He kicked him onto the street.

Then the second guard lowered the door with a bang.

Jasmine flinched.

The guard plopped down on the floor, back against the door, arms on his bent knees, gun dangling from his hand.

Waleed sat beside him and shouted in Arabic. “All set back here.”

Leila pressed her shoulder into her sister’s and whispered. “Do not lose hope. Michael will find us.”

Though how, she had no idea.

When Jasmine lifted her head, Leila peered into her eyes and saw…despair.

But Michael knew where they were, right? Hurry. Please.

She looked around for something to use to defend herself. There was a crowbar, somewhere. But she didn’t see it and wouldn’t be able to get to it even if she did, not with Waleed and the guard watching.

She had no way to fight, no way to defend herself or her sister.

The driver hit the gas, and they lurched forward and drove away.

Michael would never find them.

It was all over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The rental was an older model Ford F-150 with four doors and a roomy backseat. Michael stowed his pack and mapped directions to the pin Splat had sent. He was eager to get the boxes loaded and start the trek to Istanbul. Thanks to his long nap—and the refreshingly cool air outside, such a contrast to the Iraqi desert—he shouldn’t have any trouble driving through the night.

After connecting his phone to the truck's Bluetooth system, he drove off the airport grounds and headed toward a city street. Buildings rose on his right. Apartments, he guessed, or perhaps offices. It was hard to tell in the dark.

He was a quarter mile from the cargo van when he saw a figure on the sidewalk ahead.

A man. Limping. Holding his arm.

Splat?

He slammed on the brakes, his heart racing.

His friend limped around the front of the truck as Michael opened the door.

“I’m driving.”

Michael hopped the console into the passenger seat. “What happened?”