Chris went ashore and found a vehicle — a white sedan without maker markings. He commandeered the white sedan and drove southeast into town. With each building and road he passed, he found no new clues, and more and more, he realized he had no idea where he was going. He exhaled his frustration, but he couldn’t blow it all out.
At the north end of Ras al-Basit, the road curved around to the east. Another road headed north, following the Mediterranean coast. He passed the intersection and drove east before slowing and making a U-turn. Then he made the turn north before taking another U-turn. This time he turned around south toward Ras al-Basit, where he’d just come from. He was driving in circles. Chris pulled off the road and stopped the sedan. Hannah was still missing. As was Jim Bob. And Victor.
Failure squeezed the energy out of him.
He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply before saying a prayer. After he said amen, the disappointment and negative feelings flowed out of him. Serenity flowed in. The sun broke the horizon, its rays entering his windshield and warming the air around him. The warmth embraced him like some omniscient mercy. He’d relied more on his SEAL skills than his minister skills thus far, and he was more imperfect than perfect, so he didn’t feel worthy of mercy, but he accepted its embrace anyway.
More cars passed by, leaving him exposed like a deer in an open field waiting for hunting season to begin. He spotted a grey van heading south and followed it. The van took him back into Ras al-Basit, where Chris allowed a black Mercedes to pull in between his sedan and the van. At a traffic light, the van dragged it, waiting for a red light, so anyone behind would be forced to stop, then just before the light changed, the van passed through the intersection — maybe the driver was trying to ditch possible tails. The Mercedes ran the light and sped aggressively past the van. Chris stepped on the brake, and his sedan came to a standstill. As he waited for the light, the van pulled farther and farther away. Two cars entered the road behind the van, creating more obstacles between him and his target.
“Come on, please,” he begged the light. He could run it, but if Victor was in the van, he’d be checking his rearview mirror and notice Chris’s move. When the light finally turned green, he stepped on the gas. A large cargo truck pulled out in front of him before he could pick up speed. Chris wanted to pass it, but there were too many cars coming from the opposite direction. Soon he lost sight of the van.
When the opposite lane cleared, Chris passed the truck. Next, he overtook the two vehicles, but the van was nowhere in sight.
Did it already make a turn? Where would it go? Was that even the Agency van?
If it was, someone would have had to drive it, and another someone would’ve had to drive the yacht in order for both to arrive in Ras al-Basit. In such a scenario, there would be at least two people involved. Once again, he wondered if Jim Bob and Hannah were Victor’s co-conspirators.
Chris sped back to the marina and was relieved to find the Agency yacht still moored there. Whoever brought the Agency yacht here is likely to need it again. He spun the steering wheel to the right, then straightened out, but he had to collect himself so he wouldn’t fly into the marina like a flaming banshee. He eased off the accelerator.
He parked the sedan in a place that provided some concealment, but he’d stolen the sedan from the same parking lot, and the owner might return, so he exited it. He could wait outdoors, but passersby might spot him and become suspicious of his loitering, so he hid below deck in the cabin of the Agency yacht.
For breakfast, he scarfed down an energy bar and washed it down with water from his Camelbak. The morning wore on slowly, and images of home drifted into his mind. I’d be a lot safer if I packed up and went home to the States. But I can’t abandon Hannah and Jim Bob now.
In the afternoon, the noise of vehicles came and went from the direction of the parking lot. Voices and the sounds of boats came and went, too. He ran out of water, so he filled his Camelbak from the yacht’s supply.
It’d been hours, and isolation crept in as awareness of the situation around the yacht became stale. He peeked above deck — the blue-black sky dimmed with the quickening of evening. There was no sign of the Agency van in the parking lot. A group of well-dressed young partiers boarded the yacht to his right. The partiers couldn’t seem to make up their minds whether they were preparing to get underway or staying docked.
He returned to the cabin. It had become dark, but he didn’t want to turn on the light. It was too risky. He sat on the couch in the main cabin and prayed for Hannah’s and Jim Bob’s safety and for guidance about what to do next. Fatigue crept into his prayer, his mind wandered, and he had to start his prayer again from the beginning. On the third time of restarting his prayer, he thought about the possibility that Hannah and Jim Bob were kidnapped, and his thoughts strayed to his own experience as a kidnapped child — and how it had changed the course of his life.
12
A quiet rustle startled him, and he realized he’d fallen asleep — and that someone had boarded the yacht. He opened his eyes, but the cabin was dark. He snapped to his feet, and the light came on. Chris’s arm twitched to just short of drawing his pistol. It was Victor, carrying a grey travel duffel bag in his left hand, and his reaction was similar to Chris’s. As they both recognized each other, they didn’t draw, but their hands remained near their pistols.
“What are you doing here?” Victor asked.
“Where are Hannah and Jim Bob?” Chris asked. “And the Switchblade Whisper?”
Victor stood silent, and his face was expressionless. His fingers wiggled slowly and deliberately, as if stretching before drawing and shooting his firearm.
Chris waited, staring at him. He, too, stretched his fingers. Moments later, footsteps sounded on the upper deck. The footsteps descended the stairs.
“Chris, you made it!” Jim Bob exclaimed. “I was so worried about you!”
“Well, I’m a little confused right now,” Chris said slowly. “Maybe you can help.”
“Confused?” Jim Bob said in his fatherly tone. “Are you injured?”
“Where’s Hannah?”
“I thought she was with you.” Jim Bob’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
Chris took a breath. “That’s not the response I was hoping for.”
“What response were you hoping for?” Jim Bob replied with concern in his voice that contrasted the emptiness of his words.
“The truth.”
Jim Bob appeared confused. “The truth?”
“Why don’t we start with the exploding SUV?”
Jim Bob gestured with open palms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Somebody planted explosives in the SUV, rigged to go off when the driver’s door was opened.” Chris’s jaw clenched. “That was meant for Hannah and me.”
“Oh, my,” Jim Bob said. “Who would do such a thing?”