Free Point of No Return by Susan May Warren Page B

stared at her. “But what about you? You need sleep.”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you wake me?”
    â€œI— Oh, fine. I fell asleep, too. For a little while.”
    A smile, not unkind, edged up his face. “I’ll pretend you didn’t tell me that.”
    â€œThat works for me.”
    He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, sweaty despite the fact their breath puffed in the early morning air. And of course, while she probably had makeup smudged under her eyes—whatever remained of it—and smelled like a gopher, he looked devastating with his two-day shadow and forever-mussed dark hair. He even smelled good—woodsy, with a hint of masculine muskiness.
    She had to give him props for managing to find thema stellar hiding place, especially in the dead of night. He’d tucked them behind a fallen oak with webbed roots that sheltered their covey from the field just beyond. The murmuring of cattle stirred the morning air, carrying with it the earthy musk of a nearby farm.
    Next to her, Chet plowed through his duffel bag. “How about something to eat?”
    She glanced at him. “Are you sure you’re okay? That seemed like a pretty vivid nightmare—”
    â€œFound it.” He produced a piece of halvah in gray paper.
    Sesame seeds in a honey paste for breakfast. She decided to consider it Russian granola. “I used to love halvah in college,” she said as she took the snack.
    He chewed in silence beside her, clearly not wanting to discuss his nightmare. He finished the halvah, then pulled out an orange, peeled it and divided it with her.
    â€œHow many miles to Burmansk?” he finally asked.
    The fruit splashed sweet and tangy in her mouth. She chased the breakfast with water and wiped her mouth with her grimy shirt. “I can’t tell on this map—the legend is all off. I think maybe ten or fifteen, cross country?”
    He took another bite. As he unscrewed his bottled water, she noticed his hands shaking.
    She touched his forearm. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Chet.”
    He glanced at her, a sideways look. “I’m not. I would only be back in Prague, pacing the floor, worried sick about you.”
    He would? Her throat turned pasty. She took another sip of water. His eyes had fastened on her, as if reading her reaction.
    â€œWhat?”
    He got up, pulling out another orange from his bag. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that.” Crunching away through the leaves, he stood staring out into the field.
    â€œI get it, you know. I realize what it cost you to come back here. I saw it in your eyes. You’re remembering your mission, aren’t you? The person you lost that you cared about. This—” she gestured to the forest and fields, to Georgia “—is bringing it all back.”
    He half turned to her, and she saw him wince, his jaw tight.
    The cadence of the forest highlighted his silence.
    â€œSometimes I just feel like my mistakes could consume me whole.”
    He said it so softly that if she hadn’t been staring right at him, watching his lips, she wouldn’t have heard it. But the mourning in his tone brought her to her feet.
    By the time she reached him, he’d turned away from her again. “Her name was Carissa. She worked for a Georgian politician, and we were planning a coup. She could lay her hands on troop movements, get a hold of insider information we needed.”
    â€œWe, meaning Americans?”
    He winced. “Let’s just say that sometimes Western governments give a little nudge to fledgling revolutionary groups for the sake of freedom.”
    She stayed silent.
    â€œI was a soldier, following orders.”
    She gave a small nod when he glanced over his shoulder at her.
    â€œThis is one of the reasons I struck out on my own. The lines just got too blurry.”
    â€œAnd the costs too high?”
    He swallowed.