Wiser Than Serpents

by Susan May Warren

  For a second, she let those thoughts find a home. Wiggle inside.

  Perhaps she…maybe she wanted to believe, just a little.

  She wasn’t sure why. Possibly because she’d always wondered what made David the man he was—a man of passion and strength. A man who hoped. Who didn’t surrender.

  A man she could count on even if it didn’t go her way.

  A man whose beliefs were so strong, so vividly written on every inch of him that it made her hurt that she didn’t have that, too.

  Sometimes, like now, when she felt the world was caving in, yes, she might want to believe.

  But she wasn’t going to say that, not yet, and not to Trish.

  Behind her, she heard Trish put down her watering can. She came over to Yanna. “I envy you,” Trish said.

  Yanna shot her a look.

  “I do,” Trish said. “You are one of the smartest, most creative women I’ve ever met. The way you took apart those cell phones to make communication gadgets. And you were so incredibly brave at the teahouse. I just sat there drinking my tea, thinking I might wet my pants or something.”

  Yanna smiled. Yeah, well, Trish didn’t have to know how close she’d come to that, too. More than once in the past few days.

  “And I’d give just about anything for the way you fit into that dress.”

  Yeah, well, Trish had curves, cute ones, and Yanna opened her mouth to tell her so when—

  “But I guess I’m lucky, too.”

  Huh?

  “Because I don’t have my brains and beauty to keep me from forsaking the grace that could be mine.”

  Yanna closed her mouth.

  “It’s not a weakness to believe in Someone. To depend on them. Especially if that person is out for your good. Your eternal good.”

  Yanna had the strangest, unsettling feeling that perhaps Trish wasn’t talking about…David. In fact, nope, because—

  “The world spends an awful lot of time trying to come up with reasons why they don’t need God. But you know, even if you don’t think you need Him, it doesn’t make His love for you any less. And I’ll bet, when you turn around and take a look at what He is doing in your life, how much He loves you, you’re going to rethink whether you need Him or not.”

  Maybe Trish might be talking about David, just a little, too.

  Yanna opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Not words, at least.

  Because at that moment, she wasn’t a supersecret agent, but just a woman, a tired, overwhelmed woman, a woman who didn’t know what else to do when three men rushed at her from behind Trish.

  So, she screamed—and stepped in front of pregnant Trish to protect her as Kwan’s men reached out to grab them.

  “I see movement down there.” Roman had his eyes glued to a pair of binoculars—real binoculars he’d purchased last night while David and Yanna were running around Taiwan, her in stocking feet and a silky dress.

  While David had been saying goodbye. At least in his heart.

  “Is it Kwan?”

  Roman didn’t answer for a moment, then, “No, one of his bodyguards. But he’s definitely up to something. He’s climbing into the limo, talking into a radio.” He put the glasses down. “I think one of us should tail him.”

  David nodded. “I’m down with that. You go—I’ll stay here and keep track of Kwan. Take the scooter.”

  David dug into his pocket for the key to his latest ride—Cho’s scooter. Thankfully, his brain cells had been firing enough this morning to prophecy the scenario that he and Roman might have to separate to tail Kwan.

  He’d given approximately zero-point-six seconds to the idea that he should wake Yanna. After finally flushing the panic from his system—probably around five this morning—he had made a final decision.

  A decision he knew would seal their fate.

  She wasn’t getting near Kwan again. He didn’t care if he had to duct tape her to Trish’s kitchen chair, Yanna wasn’t leaving the house until he brought Elena to her doorstep. And even then, only to get into the van, drive straight to Taipei, and get outta Dodge—or Taiwan, as it were.

  And even after that, he had made Roman promise to keep an eye on her for a very long time, because neither of them was stupid enough to think Kwan wouldn’t track her down, even in Russia.

  Kwan probably had distant relatives on every corner of the planet, every one of them aching to be next in line for the so-called Serpent Throne. Taking out one FSB agent surely wouldn’t give them a moment’s pause. In fact, there might even be a bidding war. Which meant that after David got Yanna on a plane, and after he’d made Roman shadow her every move, he had to return to Kaohsiung and track down the real Kwan. And now, Serpent number two. They just kept breeding…

  Again David had the overwhelming urge to simply throw Yanna over his shoulder and disappear. But that cavemanesque response wasn’t what a girl like Yanna deserved.

  Not at all.

  He put his hand to his chest, right where it hurt as he watched Roman drive away.

  Lord, please help us find Elena. And help Yanna see that You do care, You do love her.

  He kept his eyes on Kwan’s yacht.

  His new cell phone rang. It was a cheapie he’d picked up at the market, with a disposable minutes card. He flipped it open, not able to read the identity. “Yeah.”

  “David—”

  Just the tone, the way his name came out short, with pain, made every cell in his body tense.

  “Trish?”

  “David, they came, and they got her….”

  Got…oh, no. Breathe. Just breathe. “Trish, are you okay?”

  “Cho’s hurt, and I…I…” Her intake of breath cut off her voice, and the sobbing that followed had David already putting the van into gear, already on autopilot.

  “Hang on, Trish, I’ll be right there. Just hang on. And lock your doors.”

  “Yeah…” she hiccuped. “Hurry, David…hurry.”

  Please, God. He roared out into traffic, nearly taking out a couple of scooters—watch out, boys—and sped through the next, yellowish light.

  No, no. How had Kwan found—

  Oh no. They’d been careful, and if Kwan knew where they were, he could have snatched them last night.

  Unless he didn’t want David, just Yanna.

  Again, that didn’t make sense, because David had seen him.

  No, David had seen his imposter. He hadn’t met the real Kwan, he knew it in his bones.

  Then why kidnap Yanna? And how?

  The bottom line was, this was David’s fault for letting himself be distracted.

  He dodged a car and honked his horn at a couple of pedestrians who thought they might be able to win in a metal-to-flesh game of chicken.

  The alleyways of Taiwan had about a millimeter of clearance for the van, and he went through them like he might a computer game, fast, following his instincts. He did take out a planter—heard it fly up and splatter on the ground behind him—but didn’t slow, and thanked God that he didn’t also kill anyone.

  Yet.

  Please, don’t let Kwan hurt her. Please. He wiped an edge of wetness below his eye. Apparently, his fatigue and stress had overflowed his cup.

  Oh, who was he trying to kid? If anything happened to Yanna he’d never make it. He’d curl in a ball somewhere, dark and horrible, screaming.

  Why hadn’t he pushed her—made her confront the idea that God cared about her?

  No, why hadn’t he told her he loved her? Really, finally, in good and bad, Kwan or no Kwan, over e-mail and up close, loved her?

  Do you trust God, David?

  He wiped away another tear as he pulled up to the Yungs’ house.

  I hope. Please help me trust You, God.

  He braked, and the car screeched and he slammed it into Park, getting out before it had come to a complete halt. Then he was inside.

  What he saw made him hold on for a second to the door frame. “Trish, how bad is it?”

  Cho had been hurt�
��the bloody cut and Everest-size goose egg over his eye testified to something hard connecting with his skull. David winced just looking at it. In true horror-movie fashion, blood had run down his face and was pooled in the collar of his dress shirt. More blood stained his sleeve.

  But it was Trish who had David’s attention, the way she sat on the sofa, holding her stomach, breathing hard. Cho sat beside her, his hand on her stomach, and he looked up when David entered.

  “What happened?”

  A scratch down the side of Trish’s face oozed rivulets of blood. Concrete meets face, and concrete had won. “They surprised us—Cho was downstairs—I didn’t even see them coming. I just looked up, and they were inside.”

  Trish moaned, which cut off Cho’s words and made him go white. “I have to get you to the doctor.”

  Trish couldn’t take a breath, but then neither could David, or Cho probably, considering that his unborn child was probably fighting for life.

  “Did they hit you?” David said, grabbing up the phone and tossing it to Cho. “Call nine-one-one again.”

  “No—I mean, yes, but Yanna took most of it. They came in with this long pole, probably the same one they used on Cho.” Trish put her hand out, touching his cheek, her face crumpling as she mentally relived the attack. “And Yanna saw it coming and she stepped in front of me. It knocked us both down.” She put her hand over her stomach, again, and made a face that prompted Cho to dial.

  “Are you sure it was Kwan’s men?”

  “No, I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I just…just lay there as they hauled up Yanna. She was kicking and screaming, and landed at least one punch—”

  Oh, swell. Give them another reason to hit you, Yanna. David sank down to a crouch because suddenly his stomach wasn’t feeling so well.

  “But they hit her and told her to shut up.”

  He put his hand up, wanting to stop her words but knowing he couldn’t and instead covered his eyes with his hand. “Did they kill her?” Had he really asked that? Or worse, was he ready for the answer, because that thought knocked him off his feet and he had to sink all the way to the floor, one hand out to take the weight. He took some deep breaths. Nearly put his head between his knees.

  Oh, Lord.

  “No—they had a pretty tight grip on her when they left, but she wasn’t howling anymore, in fact it almost looked like she was cooperating.” This, from Cho, who cut off his testimony to talk to whoever had answered the phone.

  Cooperating? David stared at Trish, who had ducked her head, breathing hard now through whatever pain gripped her. What would make Yanna not fight?

  Elena.

  They had Elena. And Yanna went with them because they told her so and she believed them.

  He leaned back, breathing hard, sweating.

  Get a grip, David.

  Only, what, exactly, would getting a grip look like when the woman he loved had been hauled out to who knows where by a couple of human traffickers? Unraveled. Unhinged—now those words he could embrace.

  Cho had hung up, and he turned to his wife. “The ambulance is on its way. Just try and stay calm.”

  Calm. It was possible David would never be calm again.

  Cho looked up at him, gave him a grim look. “You’re going to get her back, David.”

  He stared hard at Cho, at those dark eyes, a rabid suspicion that made him both ashamed and furious, rising from some haunted place inside him.

  “He left that—” Cho pointed to a manila envelope on the table. Next to it sat Yanna’s smashed laptop. “He said to tell you to wait for his call. Kwan will trade Yanna…for you.”

  Vicktor was prepared for Gracie to be surprised. To react, even to stare at him, maybe even yell. But he didn’t think Gracie had that kind of aim. He barely managed to miss the flying—metal? Before it banged on the door, chipping out a piece of wood.

  The second missile caught him in the forehead. Blinding pain made him hit the dirt, or at least the wood-planked floor. “Gracie, stop! It’s me—Vicktor.”

  And then, silence. Pure silence during which he wondered if he’d passed out, because his head certainly spun, the pain centered right there in the middle, throbbing. He reached up and sure enough, not just a goose egg, but blood.

  Oh, wasn’t this a great way to make an entrance.

  But he quickly put his hand back down because the floor had lurched up at him, and his cheek connected and he was down for a two-count.

  And then Gracie was there. Right beside him, kneeling over him, a cool hand over his wound, pulling him up toward her, into her arms.

  He leaned back, against Gracie, letting her hand stop the bleeding. Breathing hard, he looked up at her.

  Her expression was shocked, but only for a second, because then her eyes started to shine with tears—or maybe fright—and she swallowed and managed a shaky smile.

  He might just live.

  Or slide happily into unconsciousness.

  “Vicktor, I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?” But she didn’t wait for an answer, just bent down and kissed his cheek, holding him.

  No, this wasn’t going to work. He let her hold him a second longer, then leaned up, turned and, while she held his head, he put his hands around her waist, pulled her to him and kissed her.

  And as if she were ecstatic to see him, she kissed him back. Arm around his shoulder, holding on, kissing him back like she hadn’t seen him for months…or years. Like she wasn’t remotely tired of him, or annoyed by him.

  Like she still loved him.

  He felt his panic begin to shake free—not the panic that had made him rent a car and drive as if he might be on the autobahn, straight to the place where she said she wanted their honeymoon—but the deeper panic.

  The one that told him she no longer needed him. No longer loved him.

  Gracie.

  He might be trembling so he pulled back, breathing hard, and ran his eyes over her face.

  She smiled up at him, her beautiful eyes bright. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Surprise.”

  She shook her head, incredulity on her face. “How did you find me?”

  He shrugged. “I know you.”

  That obviously touched her, because she nodded and wiped a finger under her eye. “You do.”

  “Yeah. Just a little.” He cupped his hand under her chin. “And I was worried about you. You sounded weird on the phone, and when you sent me that text, well, Roman ran the name, and I did the math, and when I couldn’t get a hold of you…I…”

  “You hopped on a plane to America.”

  He swallowed. But she didn’t stop grinning.

  “You hopped on a plane to America.”

  “Yeah, okay, I did do that. But not because you’re incapable or anything. It was just because…because I’m a panicker. I do stupid things, and it probably won’t be the last time I do something really over the top, but in this case, I’m glad I came because—”

  “Because we’re in trouble.”

  This from the girl standing in the doorway to another room. A thin girl, about eighteen or so, with long brownish-blond hair and a face that looked definitely Russian. She wore American clothes, however—sweatpants and tennis shoes and a down vest—and, most important, held another horseshoe in her hand. “Were you the one who hit me?”

  “No, that was me,” Gracie said, taking her hand away and looking at his wound. She made a face. “That won’t be pretty. You might even have a scar.”

  “It’ll be a memory.” He found his feet, closed the door and locked it. “The time when Grandma nearly took Grandpa’s head off.”

  Gracie made a little whimpering sound, and he reached down to pull her up. Then, one last time, because he had to, and because his heart was still pounding hard, he pulled her tight against him and held on.

  She held him back. “I was hoping you’d come.”

  “Really?” he whispered. Please, let it be true, and not because she was in trouble and might be ha
ppy to see anyone on her side, but because she really meant it. Because she hoped he would be the one knocking at her door.

  “Deep down inside, I think I’m always hoping that.” Her smile faded. “Wait a second—how did you get into the country so quickly? You don’t have a—”

  He put his finger over her mouth. “A little bit illegal, here, dorogaya.”

  Gracie’s eyes widened, her smile now completely gone. “If you get caught.”

  “I won’t get caught.”

  “But—”

  A sound made Vicktor freeze. Footsteps, on gravel. Outside. And them with the lights on, televising their every move. He flicked off the lights.

  “Get down.”

  But it was too late, because whoever was outside had friends inside, too. Glass broke in the bedroom, then, before Vicktor could get them someplace safe—like, where, behind the sofa?—footsteps rushed through the house.

  One came in behind Gracie’s horseshoe-holding friend. He grabbed the girl around the neck and added a gun to her temple for oomph.

  Vicktor stepped in front of Gracie.

  “Jorge, put down the gun,” Gracie said slowly.

  But Vicktor’s eyes were on the men coming in through the door. With an ax.

  Welcome to America.

  Chapter Seventeen

  V icktor was here. In America. Here.

  And about to get killed. Because shortly after her Russian hero had jumped in front of her, the door with its flimsy lock had slammed open, and two men had rushed in, one holding the ax.

  Which hit the floor right where she and Vicktor had been standing.

  She ended up near the sofa—Vicktor must have thrown her—and as she blinked to clear her head, she saw Sokolov take Vicktor to the ground.

  Meanwhile, Jorge had Ina by the hair. “No, Jorge!” Gracie called, as Ina clawed his arm.

  She’d counted three attackers, Sokolov on Vicktor, Jorge grappling with Ina, and number three—sure enough, she threw her hands over her head as something came crashing down over her. She dodged, and it hit the sofa.

  Her attacker lunged toward her, off balance. Gracie brought up her knee, connected with his gut, and groped for one of those decorative rocks from the coffee table.