Run to You
Global Guardians 3
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 Run to You
The only way out is to trust the man who broke her heart.
Her sister has been kidnapped and FSB agent is hot on her trail--by going undercover into Taiwan's sex-trafficking trade. Now, she's in over her head . . . or is she?
Also deep undercover is Delta Force captain David Curtiss, after the kingpin of the Twin Serpents, the organized crime syndicate that has Yanna, and hundreds of others, in their clutches. But when he discovers Yanna, his mission is suddenly jeopardized. Now, David and Yanna have to rely on each other to save her sister and bring a trafficker to justice.
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
Epilogue
Also by Susan May Warren
For Your glory, Lord.
Prologue
Out of all of Yanna Andrevka’s bright ideas, masquerading as a mail-order bride ranked among the most stupid. This thought took root as she blinked against the sudden flood of sunlight and stared at her “groom”-to-be, Kwan, as he’d so kindly introduced himself—five foot nine of cut Asian muscle, a scar running from his chin to his ear, an eyebrow pierced with a curved barbell, and eyes that looked like they could spear through her and take out her heart.
Here comes the bride. Only this bride felt disheveled and grimy, her long hair hanging in strings over her face, her body stiff after being locked in a pitch-black storage room alone for what seemed like an eternity. That things were about to get worse seemed apparent as her captors/hosts/groomsmen dragged her blindfolded from the belly of wherever they’d stashed her, led her to Kwan’s office, sat her down in a chair, and handcuffed her hands behind her. She’d had the presence of mind to fist her hands as they secured them, allowing for jangle room on her wrists. She twisted her hands, keeping the circulation pumping, fearing it might take her longer than she hoped to get out of them.
Yanna silenced the moans that rose from the depths. Of course she’d recognized Kwan, even before his kind introduction. He’d only been at the top of her Most Likely to Kidnap and Traffic Women search list. Thankfully, she’d also shared her suspicions with her FSB cohorts, which would be only a slight consolation when they found her body floating with the fish.
What had she been thinking?
Kwan stood over her, hands loose, her blindfold dangling from one fist, his stance unassuming. The confidence in his body language only turned her blood cold in her veins.
She raised her chin and managed to find her voice. “Wǒ zài něi lǐ shì?” Not that she expected an answer to her question—Where am I?—but it bought her time as her brain spun and tried to fix on her surroundings. She smelled the brine of seawater, and small square windows evidenced a ship’s office. Streams of fading sunlight splotched the thinly carpeted floor and turned a smooth black desk to onyx. Her nausea clinched it—last time she’d been at sea, she’d lost half her stomach overboard and gained a new respect for the rebotnik who fished the Amur River near her home in Russia.
When Kwan didn’t respond, Yanna asked again, “Where am I?”
It occurred to her that she might be saying something that would earn her another slap, like Touch me again and die, you pig. She hadn’t used her Mandarin for years, and she might be letting loose any one of the threats she conjured up for this man who’d kidnapped, and possibly killed, her sister, Elena.
Kwan stepped back from her and leaned against the desk. He picked up a pero, a ten-inch knife, probably intending to terrify her, and chose a star fruit from the bowl on his desk. She ignored the press of hunger in her stomach. Her last meal had been about three decades ago, courtesy of the hotel at Incheon Airport, Seoul, Korea.
Kwan cut the fruit slowly, his gaze steady. “Qngwn, n sh bu sh
Migu rn.”
Was she an American? She hid a flare of indignation and gave him instead a quivering smile. “Do I look like an American?” she asked softly. She hid the flinch as he gave her a head-to-toe perusal, starting at her spike-heel boots, up the calf-high supple leather, past the black leather skirt, up to the sheer silk blouse and camisole. American? Hardly. Americans dressed in baggy jeans and sturdy hiking boots. Maybe not all Americans, but the ones she knew prided practicality over form. Missionary Gracie Benson nearly had to be coerced into wearing the pretty dress FSB agent friend Vicktor Shubnikov purchased for her while trying to save her life. And Sarai Curtiss, Roman Novik’s girlfriend and humanitarian doctor, ran around the Khabarovsk University Hospital in a pair of yoga pants and running shoes.
Then again, a sturdy pair of Reeboks just might come in handy in about ten seconds when Yanna kicked that juicy smirk off Kwan’s face and demanded Elena’s whereabouts.
After she got out of the handcuffs, of course.
Kwan’s smile didn’t touch his eyes as he used the knife to bring a piece of star fruit to his mouth. The ring he wore on his middle finger sparkled in the fading sunlight, and she attributed the nasty bruise on her cheek to the snake’s head with the ruby stone eyes. Finishing his silent assessment, he raised a thin black eyebrow. “You speak English.”
She nodded, purposely keeping her eyes down, catching a view of the two thugs who stood slightly behind her. She’d named them Fu and Wang, as they looked like extras from a Jackie Chan movie. “I thought I was meeting my future husband. My American future husband,” she mumbled, hiding completely the simmer of terror that lurked just below the skin. Was this how Elena had felt? Had the two goons behind her also drugged the twenty-three-year-old Russian, perhaps in her plate of dim sum while she waited for her flight to Ame
rica in the Korean airport? Had they “escorted”—dragged—her through Incheon Airport and onto the plane, sat flanking her like Dobermans, and whisked her through customs and passport control in Taiwan like she might be a head of state?
Had they shoved her into a waiting sedan, then clamped a cloth over her nose and mouth, laughing while she kicked and fought and succumbed to yet another drug?
Most importantly, when she’d awoken, had Elena’s stomach turned to knots and threatened to climb up her throat when she realized that no one knew where she was and that she’d been swallowed whole into a world of human trafficking, bondage, and slavery?
Only these thoughts kept Yanna from kicking Kwan in the throat, making a fast break for the door, hurtling herself overboard into the cold China Sea, and freestyling it toward shore. These, and the belief that following her hunches might lead her to her little sister.
Elena, why didn’t you listen to me?
Kwan laughed at her. As he finished off the star fruit, he nodded to Fu and Wang to leave. Then he straightened. As they left, Fu handed Kwan her passport, the one listing her as Olga Rustikoff. Through the briefly opened door, Yanna glimpsed bruised skies, blue sea, and heard the sound of a speedboat. How far were they from mainland China?
Kwan paged through the passport. Yanna heard the ship’s motors fire up, felt the boat list as it moved. For the smallest of seconds, she wished she’d listened to Roman and Vicktor, trusted their sources, their concern. And she wished David Curtiss, best friend and American soldier, had answered her emails. Yes, he’d told her he’d be undercover, deep under in fact, but that hadn’t stopped him from writing before. From checking into her life. From caring. The fact he’d been ignoring her for nearly three months hurt more than anyone could ever know. He may think of her as a kid sister, but his friendship filled her world with a light and hope she couldn’t put into words.
She’d never told him that, of course. At this rate, never would. Her body would simply wash ashore on some foreign soil and he’d never know that after twelve years, she still dreamed he’d fly halfway across the world to take her in his arms and tell her he couldn’t live without her.
It was the drugs in her system talking. Because she, an FSB agent, and David, an American Delta Force major, had as much chance of living happily ever as she had of escaping this ship and not being devoured by sharks.
Apparently, her backup team, the ones with a supernatural connection—Roman and Vicktor, Gracie and Sarai—needed to up their piety because God certainly hadn’t heard their prayers for her safety. Either that, or Yanna was simply correct in her belief that prayers to an unseen—and uncaring—God accomplished nothing. After ten years fighting crime in Russia, she could have told them that.
Kwan picked up his metal garbage can, set it at his feet. Then, taking his lighter, he ignited the passport and dropped it into the can. The acrid smell of plastic filled the room. Yanna stared wide-eyed at the black smoke.
“Why—?”
But she knew why, even as the word left her mouth. Kwan reached behind him and held up a tube of lipstick. Saying nothing, he uncapped it and twisted the base. Yanna held her breath as a three-inch curved blade extended.
Kwan nodded. “Want to explain to me how a school teacher smuggled this onto an airplane? Or better, what is this?” He pulled her cell phone from his pocket, one of her best designs, the one with global GPS tracking connected to her network. When she’d given one to Roman, it helped save his life, and she’d counted on the little transmitter planted inside to save hers. “This doesn’t look like an iPhone from the central market.”
She kept her expression cool, but inside dread pooled like blood.
Why, oh why, had she talked herself into believing she could do this alone? Every muscle in her body tightened when Kwan dropped the phone into a drawer. He approached her slowly, dug his fingers into her hair, then yanked her head back. Her scalp screamed, but every nerve centered on the sudden cold prick of her not-so-cute-anymore knife scraping the well of her neck.
She swallowed. “I…my…cousin works airport security. He—”
“Agent Andrevka, I’m not that stupid.”
She refused to flinch, to give any indication that his words sliced through her, leaving her cold.
Yes, this was definitely the dimmest of her bright ideas.
“I’m not sure, exactly, what to do with you.” He ran his hand down her hair, smoothing it. “You’re very beautiful—”
A knock came at the door. With a sigh, Kwan let her go and stepped back from her. She felt his gaze on her like daggers, or maybe it was simply her pounding heart, cutting her chest to shreds. Get ahold of yourself, Yanna. She hadn’t worked in the field since her training days, but she’d been taught how to think ahead, look for opportunities.
To have backup. Oy. She hoped her other transmitter was still operating.
“Enter,” Kwan said, hiding the knife behind his back as he crossed his hands.
The door opened, and Yanna heard footfalls even as she kept her eyes ahead of her. Fu spoke quickly, softly. “He’s here.”
Kwan’s breathing and the silence that followed felt like a noose, choking off her air. Think, Yanna! Now might be her one and only chance for escape…but what about Elena?
“Escort him in—”
“But the wom—”
Kwan raised a hand, cutting Fu off. Every muscle in Yanna’s body coiled as she watched Kwan sit down at his desk. He closed the lipstick case, capped it. Folded his hands. His silver eyebrow spike gleamed against the sunlight.
Yanna twisted her hands in her cuffs, and for a moment, considered a prayer, just in case she might be wrong about God caring.
She heard voices at the door, and Fu entered the room followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man. She scrutinized him through the curtain of her long hair, wondering how many steps it might take to break free and launch herself out the door. The visitor didn’t even look her way as he entered, but she glimpsed ponytail-long dark hair, a close-trimmed beard, and an arrogance in his step. She looked away before she met his eyes. Dressed in a pair of designer jeans, a gray silk shirt, and a pair of black hiking boots, he looked American. Of course. The center of the human trafficking trade. Yanna worked her handcuffs as she listened to their conversation with her rusty Mandarin.
According to her translation, Mr. American Slave Trader wasn’t exactly fluent either. But he made his point. His shipment waited in Taiwan and he wanted to set up an exchange.
She wondered if she—or Elena—might be among the cargo.
Yanna studied him, saw his wide shoulders, the way he held himself, and a memory nudged inside of her. Fu saw her perusal and slapped her.
Pain exploded in her face and tears rushed to her eyes. As she cried out, the visitor turned. She saw his body jerk, and she looked away, hating the foolish bravado that lied to her and told her she was field material. Too much time spent with her hero pals Vicktor and Roman.
She was a computer tech, with a knack for gadgets. What made her think she wouldn’t face the same fate as Elena? Or worse, the same fate as Katya?
Nothing but desperation.
“What is she doing here?” the American said, and Yanna looked up. Blue eyes, familiar blue eyes looked down at her, and for the briefest of seconds, they filled with horror.
She’d seen that horror before. Just outside Red Square in Moscow fifteen years back, right after a man had grabbed her and wrestled her into the shadows.
Right after David Curtiss had jumped him and pulled him off her.
And two seconds before she’d lost her heart forever to a six-foot-two, blond-haired, blue-eyed American boy with a soft spot for the oppressed.
No, it couldn’t be. But under all that dark hair, the flashy California attire, and the painful Mandarin, she plainly recognized the guy on the other end of her email dreams, Preach, aka David Curtiss. She stared up at him. This was his big undercover assignment? The truth flashed across his face.
<
br /> He recognized her too.
“You like her?” Kwan asked, finding his feet.
Yanna looked away, not wanting to see David’s expression when he answered.
“I do,” he said, and something inside her turned warm at his words. Even though she knew it was an act, tears of relief filled her eyes. Yes, let Kwan give her to David. Together they’d find Elena and—
“She’s not for sale.”
Yanna closed her eyes, then opened them.
Kwan came around the desk, leaned against it once again.
“Why not?” David said, his voice low. “I want her.”
And then Yanna realized exactly how Elena might have felt. Cheap. A commodity. A sickness welled inside that had nothing to do with the sea.
“She’s not who you think. She’s a Russian agent.” Kwan nodded to Fu, who clamped her around the back of the neck and forced her gaze up. She kept it averted from David’s, fearing the look of derision in his eyes. Whatever undercover plot he had strung together, her appearance might just be unraveling it, and fast.
“An agent?” David repeated. “Then why do you want her?”
Kwan was silent. He drummed his fingers on his arms, staring at her. She winced as Fu’s grip dug into her neck.
“I don’t,” Kwan finally said. “We’re done with her.” He reached across his desk, behind him.
“Then let me—”
“No.”
Yanna recognized the lipstick tube and her blood drained from her body as Kwan opened it and twisted out the blade. He glanced at Fu, who let her go, and it was all she could do not to collapse. But she wouldn’t do that. Not in front of David.
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