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Twenty-eight hours later, as Hud’s plane touched down at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam, the conversation at dinner and the evening spent on the foldout in his parents’ fifth wheel still churned in his head.
Hudson put his seat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, put up the shade, and watched the plane descend, the ocean beneath them, Amsterdam coming awake on the shoreline. He wasn’t a fan of flying over the ocean, all that endless blue. Give him terra firma.
Trust God for the now. Just right here, the earth beneath your feet.
Hehadbeen hoping that Iris was his next step. But maybe she’d just been the step God had used to open his eyes.
Maybe he’d been running his entire life, looking for the next solid thing. The thing that would fill his lungs, give him peace.
You literally cannot breathe without saying His name. God is life.Yh. Wh.
He put a hand to his chest.
The root of control is fear. And God’s perfect love for us casts out fear.
The landing gear went down, and he popped his ears as the cabin pressure shifted.
He was done living in fear. Done running. Done expecting life to crumble his feet.
Done trying to find answers in tomorrow instead of trusting God for today.
They landed, and Hud pulled his duffel bag out of the first-class overhead bin, slung it over his shoulder, then followed the rest of the passengers out of the plane to passport control.
After waiting in line, he stepped up to the booth and handed his passport to the security agent. Stood unsmiling as the man looked at him, then his information, then ran it and looked at him again.
Something in his eyes…
Two guards stepped up to him, both armed, although they kept their voices low. “Hudson Bly?”
He stilled, glanced at them and then the people around him. A few were looking at him, some of their expressions alarmed. What? Should he be alarmed?
“Yes?”
“Come with us, please.”
He paused. “Why?”
“Please, sir. Now.”
Okay, yes, he was starting to get alarmed. He took the passport from the agent, then followed the officers—one in front of him, one behind him—to a nearby booth.
They came in, shut the door.
“Put your duffel bag on the table and turn around, hands behind your back.”
“What?”
“There’s an Interpol alert out for you. You’re under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Werner Vogel.”
He turned around. Put his hands behind his back as the officer snapped on cuffs.
And tried not to feel the world turning to sand under his feet.
Eleven
Amsterdam just might be the last place Iris wanted to be. “This isn’t even a real game.” She dropped her backpack onto the bed of the hotel where the rest of her crew was staying as Shae walked over to the curtains and pulled them.
Against the twilight, the city had begun to glitter, the lights bright over Dam Square and the royal palace, all lit up and golden on the west side of the square. At the other end of the plaza rose the green Mint Tower, and beyond that, the flower market and the canals.
