figured out. The old lady wasn’t actually a woman. She was a he. A wiry young man dressed like an old lady. And that man was trying to kill them. Shots clinked and pinged all around them, but Dev didn’t let that bother him. He kept Lydia’s head down, his body protecting hers, and kept himself out of the line of fire. While he waited for his chance.
Amazed and paralyzed with fear, Lydia watched him—but it was like a slow-motion dance of some sort, surreal and bizarre. He stood, then crouched forward, all the while firing that big-barreled gun at the enemy. One of the shots hit its mark. But Pastor Dev didn’t kill the VEP—the Very Bad Guys had been elevated in Lydia’s mind to Very Evil People. Pastor Dev shot the man in the leg, causing him to drop his weapon and roll around in agony. The wound must have hurt something awful from the way the man was screaming.
“Don’t worry, I just maimed him,” Pastor Dev explained, in a tone he might use to say, “Don’t you just love long walks in the woods, Lydia?”
“What if he tells someone about us?” Lydia asked as Pastor Dev sank back behind the bench.
“He won’t. Because then he’d have to explain his presence here. And he was never here. Neither were we.”
“Part of the cover?”
“Yes.”
Lydia put her hands over her head and closed her eyes, thinking of her nice little garage apartment back in Dixon. She loved that tiny apartment. It sat right over an old train depot that had been converted into a thriving antiques and collectibles minimall, complete with a country diner, both run by Lydia’s Aunt Mabel. She thought of the wonderful view of downtown Dixon—which encompassed about one square block. She thought of the great old live oak right outside her window, and the Carnegie Library and the Dixon Pharmacy and Soda Shoppe, safe, secure places with ready supplies of books, ice cream, hair spray and flavored lattes. What more could a girl ask for?
Right then, Lydia could have used a white chocolate mocha latte. She wanted so badly to be back in her four-poster bed with the frilly magnolia-embossed comforter and sheets, reading a good novel from the library, her beloved portrait of Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh in Gone With The Wind hanging on the long wall opposite her bed. Her cat Rhett would be curled up beside her on the bed, his one black patched eye contrasting sharply with his white face. Oh, how she wished to hold Rhett.
“Lydia, are you all right?”
She heard Pastor Dev’s words echoing across her mind, tugging her away from that peaceful, normal scene and back to the dark, scary not-so-normal woods. “I’m just dandy. Where’s that strange old woman?”
“She—he’s over there in the bushes, moaning.”
“Should we help him?”
“No. He won’t die. He’s trained to stop the bleeding.”
“That sure makes me feel better. What now? Will he try to follow us?”
“No. He’s injured. He’ll have to report back to his superiors that his mission has failed.”
“And just who does he work for? Surely not CHAIM?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? And that’s what our mission is all about. We have to find out who’s behind this and who sent him.”
“Do you have an idea?”
“I have a theory. But I have to get to a secure place before I can figure this out.”
They heard more moans, but Lydia didn’t feel as much empathy now for the old woman–possible killer.
“Not my problem,” she said, getting up to brush off her clothes. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Good idea.” Pastor Dev looked around, probably thinking there were others lurking in the shadows. Or maybe Lydia was the only one thinking about that possibility.
“We’ll cut through the woods until we reach the river,” Pastor Dev whispered. “Then we’ll find a way to get to our next destination.”
Lydia didn’t even know they were near a river, but a few miles later, sure enough she could hear a soft gurgling off in the distance. The Chattahoochee? Or maybe all that gurgling was coming from the bleeding man in the granny wig who was probably hobbling along after them.
“What will be our next destination?” she asked, afraid to hear the answer.
“New Orleans,” Pastor Dev said as he shoved her into the shadowy oaks and pines.
She gave him just enough time to get them hidden, then stopped. “I can’t go to New Orleans. My parents would have a royal hissy fit about that.”
“I’ll be with you,” Pastor Dev said in that condescending, I-know-best voice. “You’ll be safe.”
“Not in that city. My grandmother says the French Quarter’s a regular den of iniquity.”
Taking her by the hand, he stalked through the woods as if he knew exactly where he was going. “Not all of New Orleans is like that, Lydia, and besides, you don’t have any choice. Those are my instructions.”
“To get us to New Orleans?”
“Yes. We need to get out of Georgia.”
“Is the dwelling of light there—in New Orleans?”
He shook his head, then let out a sigh. “You are so smart.”
She refused to let flattery stop her. “Just answer me.”
“Yes—that’s a code for a safe house. Can you trust me?”
“You said I don’t have any choice.”
He gave her a long, steady look. One of his commando looks. “I’m sorry about that. Do you trust me?”
“I’m trying, Pastor Dev. But you have to admit this is all a bit new for me. You might need to give me a few minutes to adjust.”
“Okay. Take all the time you need. But remember, you have to listen to me and trust my decisions.”
“Okay.”
They walked along in silence for a few minutes. Lydia used the time to pout. She liked to be in control of any and all situations and right now she felt completely out of control. “Can I at least call my parents now?”
“They have been apprised of the situation.”
Lydia stopped again, then glanced over at him. “They have? Who did the apprising?”
“We have operatives everywhere. The situation has been explained in detail. Your parents know you’re safe and with me.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
In a lightning move, he tugged her close. Which, in spite of her pouting, did make her feel better. “You shouldn’t be here, Lydia,” he said, his gaze moving over her face.
That
