Secret Agent Minister. Lenora Worth
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God’s word?
Either way, Lydia was in the thick of it now. There was no turning back. She needed her faith now more than ever. And so did Pastor Dev.
Dev exited off the Interstate at a little roadside rest area just past Montgomery, making sure they were in a secluded, hidden spot. Glancing over at Lydia, he was relieved to see that she was sleeping, her head pressed against the window, her hands crossed in her lap. Good. She needed her rest. The poor woman had never been through anything like this night, he was sure. He knew this simply because he knew Lydia. She was a good girl. Everyone loved Lydia. Everyone.
Dev opened his door and deftly hopped out of the souped-up truck, careful not to wake Lydia. He needed to breathe. He needed to think. He needed to pray.
So he went to an old stone picnic table, which sat in clear view of the truck, his mind alert to the sounds from both the highway and the hills behind them. He’d forgotten how tense this work could make a man. He’d forgotten how complacent he’d become, living in Dixon, preaching God’s word. But he hadn’t forgotten all the years of being in CHAIM. How could a man ever forget that?
God’s word? What is that now? he wondered as he placed his head in his hands and tried to gather his thoughts.
Someone had breached a very tight-knit security. Someone had taken a mighty big risk.
“Do you want me dead so much?”
Had he said that out loud? Dev looked around at the moonlit little roadside park, a discarded soda bottle winking at him in the dark while he wished his former friend and colleague could answer that question for him. So much water underneath the bridge; so much pain held captive in his friend’s lonely heart. “Are you the one, Eli?”
To keep his mind sane, Dev once again checked his Treo. No messages. He half expected to find one from his rogue associate, telling him exactly where the next hit would be—just because Eli was that kind of guy—precise and brilliant and apparently past the breaking point. But there was nothing. No messages from his superiors, or his wayward friend or from the Lord, either. So he sat in the dark and pondered and prayed as he thought of dear, sweet Lydia, so trusting, so innocent, so…Lydia. He went over everything inside his head, wondering if he still had it in him to do this kind of work. He was rusty, softened by the kind folks of Dixon, softened by the kind eyes of the woman sleeping in the truck. He’d actually believed it was all over and behind him, all this secretiveness and espionage, all this creeping into darkness. He’d hoped—
He glanced back at the truck and thought of Lydia. What must she think of him now? What happened to his hopes and dreams now?
He felt completely hopeless, completely alone in the dark. He wanted to cry out, he wanted to revolt, to run. But he couldn’t do any of those things. So he just sat there, staring at the truck, his mind centered on the woman inside. As he sat, he relived the horrible moment he’d found his hotel room door open and saw his friend’s body slumped over in the bathtub. And somehow, he’d known that his safe, blessed life in Dixon was about to change. If only he’d had time to warn Lydia, to save her from all of this.
He’d never forget the look on her face when she’d walked into that room. Her fear and revulsion still shocked Dev to his core. How he wanted to protect her, to keep her safe. But what if he failed?
Dev did what he’d always done in tough situations. He turned to God. “‘With my whole heart have I sought thee,’” he quoted from Psalms. “O let me not wander from thy commandments.’”
And then he wept.
Lydia thought she heard weeping. Coming awake with a gasp, she followed that with a groan. Her neck felt as if someone had twisted it into a French braid and her head didn’t feel much better. It pounded and tightened as if someone were truly pulling her hair and twisting it without mercy. She couldn’t remember where she was. Then, as memory pushed through her disorientation, fear replaced all of those concerns.
She was alone in the truck.
“Pastor Dev?” she croaked, her eyes adjusting to the still, dark countryside. She sat straight up, pushing at her hair, her gaze moving over the moon-dappled woods. A tattered white plastic grocery bag hung like a flag of surrender off a moss-draped live oak, and the moon lounged with a smirk right up there in the night sky. An unfamiliar fear gripped Lydia, making her take in several rushed breaths. She wanted away from this place. But where was Pastor Dev?
And then she saw him.
He was sitting on a picnic table a few feet from the truck, a dark, somber silhouette with his head in his hands. At first, he looked so still and unmoving, Lydia thought she was just imagining him there. But then, she saw the slight shaking of his shoulders and heard the intake of a long, shuddering sob.
Lydia’s fear dissipated like a cloud parting for the moon. Her heart lurched as she went into overdrive, opening the truck door to make a straight run toward him, her pumps echoing across the asphalt with a clip-clop cadence.
“Pastor Dev?” she said, not stopping to think of her actions as she grabbed his hands. They were wet with tears.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark with torment before they became fully alert and clear. Then he tried to push her away. “No.”
“Yes,” Lydia said, determination and love bringing out her fiercely protective instincts. She might not be highly trained in undercover maneuvers, but she was extremely skilled in the compassion department. “Yes.” She pulled him into her arms, her whispers filled with her own tears. “Let me help you. Lean on me. Let me help you, please.”
He stared at her long and hard, an armor of pain and confusion shining in his eyes, then he pulled her into his arms and held her while he cried, rocking back and forth against her, his head on her shoulder, his big hands clutching at her back, until her shirt was as wet as his own.
Lydia cried, too, because it tore her heart apart to see this strong, solid man in such bad shape. She knew he was just having a delayed reaction to seeing his friend murdered, and to whatever forces had pulled him back into that other life. What man could handle that? Not even one as strong and sure as this one, Lydia thought, as she held him and stroked a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry.”
He pulled away to look up at her, his eyes so soft and misty and full of a dark longing, Lydia wondered if she were dreaming. For a single heartbeat of a second, she thought he might kiss her. But instead, he pushed at her, then jumped away from the table as if the solid stone was on fire.
“We need to get back on the road,” he said, wiping his eyes with a swat of his hand.
“Okay.”
Lydia’s heart fell apart with a shattering like little fractured bits of stained glass falling from a window. She stared after him, then she followed him back to the dark truck. She wanted to wake up safe in Dixon. She wanted to get up and drink her two cups of coffee and get dressed and walk down the street to the church, where she’d find various volunteers waiting to help her with her duties there. And she wanted to find Pastor Dev sitting at his desk eating a banana muffin from Aunt Mabel’s diner. He would offer her a bite. She would decline, but she’d bring him an extra cup of coffee to wash it down. She wanted that so much.
She wanted normal back.
And she wanted Pastor Dev back.
They drove over Lake Pontchartrain as the sun was rising behind them. A fine mist of fog rose off the lake, rays of newborn sky filtering through to wash the dawn in bright white-pink light.
“We’ll be safe here,” Pastor Dev said, his voice weak and hoarse from not speaking. Not since his meltdown at the roadside park, at least.
Lydia had honored his need to remain silent. She had some thinking of her own to do. Now she could tell he was trying to reassure her.
“I’m a burden to you, aren’t I?” she