The Missionary Read online

  With three people, the work went quickly. Stone couldn’t help watching Wren stack the chairs, couldn’t help admiring her curves. He also noticed Jimmy ogling her rather openly, and that put a damper on his emotions. Jimmy was better for Wren. He was nearer her age. He was like her, too, from her world.

  Stone resolved to step back and let Jimmy have his shot, and even adjusted his pattern in stacking chairs so Jimmy and Wren would end up next to each other. Except, Wren never even seemed to see Jimmy. Every time she looked up from the line of chairs, her gaze locked on Stone.

  And this didn’t escape Jimmy’s notice. He waved at Stone halfheartedly, then cast one last wistful glance at Wren, who waved cheerfully—cheerfully, but platonically. When the last chairs were stacked and the remainder rearranged in the requisite semicircle, Wren shut off the lights, leaving them in the middle of the sanctuary, bathed in darkness lightened only by moonglow from the windows.

  Wren slipped her hand around his. “Come on. Let’s go get milkshakes.”

  Stone let her pull him out into the parking lot, and they each got into their own cars. At the diner, he retreated by sitting back in the booth and listening. Wren would draw him into conversations every once in a while, but since he was several spots away from her—intentionally—it wasn’t hard to keep his hands busy with shredding napkins and sipping his black coffee.

  It was well past midnight when the group broke up. Stone pretended not to watch Wren discussing something with her best friend Emily and glancing at him every so often. He paid for his coffee and milkshake at the register, surreptitiously adding Wren’s to his tab, then waved to her as he pushed through the two sets of doors.

  It had been heaven to spend so much time near her, listening to her talk and watching her laugh. It had been heaven, yet also an exquisite form of torture, and he was suddenly exhausted. He was about to start the engine of his ’83 Monte Carlo SS, which he’d been restoring himself over the last year. The tranny needed replacing, and the exhaust manifold left something to be desired, but it was a work in progress, and one of the few hobbies he enjoyed.

  And then the passenger door opened and Wren slid in, shutting the door. “You don’t mind giving me a ride home, do you?”

  Stone was flustered. His ride was his sanctuary, the one place he could be himself. He twisted slightly to face her. “Um. What about your car?”

  “Emily wanted to stay for a while,” Wren said with a too-innocent shrug. “She’s got that thing going on with Brett, you know. So I figured she could drive my Honda home and you could give me a ride. It’s not out of your way, is it?”

  “Well…I mean—sure. Why not.” He couldn’t say no, not with those deep brown eyes fixed on him. “Where do you live?”

  “Not too far. UV apartments.”

  Stone suppressed a groan. The University of Virginia student apartments were on the complete opposite end of Charlottesville from his loft.

  He wanted to spend time with Wren. She made him feel…alive and present in reality, which was a huge improvement over most of the time, when he felt like he was drifting and disconnected. Ever since his discharge from the SEALs, he’d been at loose ends. Being around Wren grounded him.

  Yet, he shouldn’t spend time with her. He wasn’t the right man for her. He was too messed up. He had too much blood on his conscience.

  He shook his head and started the Monte Carlo with a throaty rumble. The 350 small block idled with a powerful grumble until Stone backed out of the parking spot and headed towards the university.

  The silence was awkward. Now that he was alone with her, he had no idea what to say. He glanced at Wren, who was clearly trying not to stare at him, and barely containing a grin.

  “This is a cool car,” she remarked. “What kind is it?”

  “1983 Monte Carlo.”

  “So is it a muscle car?”

  Stone’s lips quirked involuntarily. “Yeah, I guess so.” Another long, awkward silence. Then Wren laughed, shaking her head. “What’s funny?” he asked.

  She rolled her window down, slid lower in the seat, and rested bare feet on the side-view mirror. “Just you. You’re funny.”

  Stone frowned. “Why? What’d I do?”

  She glanced at him, holding her loose hair in place with one hand. “Nothing. That’s the point. You’ve got the whole strong-and-silent act down to a science.”

  Stone rubbed his forehead with a knuckle. “It’s not an act. I mean, I’m not trying—” He cut himself off, not sure what he was even saying. “I’m just not good at conversation.”

  Wren giggled. “No kidding. Getting more than four or five words out of you at a time is like pulling teeth.” She shoved at his bicep playfully. “I’m pretty good at talking, so maybe I can teach you.”

  Stone lifted an eyebrow. “You’re gonna teach me how to be a better conversationalist?”

  She raised one brow back at him. “Yep. You definitely need help. So. Here’s how this works. I say something, and you say something back. But you can’t just answer the most basic part of what I said. You have to leave room for more…I don’t know, more stuff to be said. You can’t just grunt yes or no answers, you know? You have to keep things open for us to have a conversation. And…you could always try something really daring, like asking me questions about myself. That’s how we get to know each other.”

  Stone did sigh then. “Wren, I didn’t say I didn’t know how to have a conversation. Just that I’m not very good at it.”

  “Well, the only way to get better is to practice. So, give it a try.”

  “Give what a try?”

  “Conversating with me.”

  “Is that even a word? And, isn’t that what we’re doing?”

  “Conversating is a word if I say it is. And I say it is.” She dug in her purse and brought out a ponytail holder, tied her hair back in a tight bun, then stuck her hand out the window and adjusted the plane of her palm so the rushing wind lifted and lowered her arm. “This is where you ask me something about myself. I’m an open book, so ask anything.”

  “What am I supposed to ask you about?”

  Wren gave him a wry glance. “Whatever you want to know about. Duh.”

  The problem, Stone reflected, was that he wanted to know everything. “Fine, I’ll play along. Um…what’s your major?”

  “Well that’s kind of a boring conversational gambit, but you’re new at this, so I’ll let it go for now.” Her warm smile made something in his belly shiver. “I’m majoring in elementary education.”

  “So you’re gonna be a teacher? Which grade?”

  “Third, ideally.” She shrugged. “But they’ll put you where they need you, and as long as I’m teaching, I don’t really care too much. Now it’s my turn to ask a question. Ready?”

  “As ready as I can be.” Stone tried to ignore the squirming nerves, knowing she was going to ask a question that didn’t have an easy answer.

  “What do you do besides lead worship on Sunday nights?”

  “Um. Well, I work on this car. I work out. I do some personal security jobs.”

  Wren gave him a look that told him she knew he was omitting some information. “But what do you do? For a career, I mean.”

  Stone sighed. “That’s complicated.”

  “Meaning you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Pretty much.” He watched Wren out of the corner of his eye, and felt a niggling sense of unease. She looked disappointed in his reticence, perhaps hurt that he wasn’t willing to share the truth with her. “Look, Wren. It’s just…it’s complicated, okay? I don’t really have a career anymore.”

  She pulled her feet in and twisted in the seat to face him. “What’s that mean?”

  Stone rubbed at his face with his palm. “Where am I going, anyway?”

  Wren just waved vaguely. “Why can’t we just drive around a little bit? I live on campus.”

  Stone turned the car onto a narrow dirt road, away from the city, away from the university, out
into the countryside. “I used to be a Navy SEAL.”

  “But now you’re not?”

  He shrugged. “Nope.”

  Wren rolled her eyes. “See, now we’re back to one-word answers. What happened?”

  “Disability discharge.” He didn’t want to have to explain, but he was going to. She was persistent, and had a way of drawing answers from him.

  “And that means?”

  “It means…disability discharge is when you’re no longer fit for active duty.”

  “Well that explains it all, doesn’t it?” Stone watched her thinking through it. “So something happened that made you have to stop being a SEAL?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So what happened?”

  Stone cursed under his breath, then sighed in frustration. “It’s a long story, and not one I really want to tell. It’s…not a good memory.”

  Wren nodded, but he could see the disappointment on her features. It made him feel cowardly and guilty, but he also knew it wasn’t a story a sweet girl like her should hear. Just no, on so many levels, just no.

  That didn’t stop Wren from giving him a look akin to silent pleading.

  “Stop looking at me like that, Wren. Here’s the short version, and it’s all you’re gonna get. I was wounded in combat. My leg got fu—messed up so bad I’m not fit enough for the SEALs anymore.”

  “You don’t limp, though.”

  “Yeah, well, that took a lot of PT. SEALs are like olympic athletes. We’re the best of the best. So I might have been able to stay in the Navy, but I’ll never be a SEAL again. So I chose retirement.”

  Wren gave him a long, considering stare. “You were wounded in combat? So do you have one of those Purple Hearts?” Stone just laughed, and Wren frowned. “What?”

  “The Purple Heart. Yeah. I’ve got one, plus like, four clusters. You get one anytime you’re hurt in the line of duty. And when you’re a SEAL, that’s pretty common. All the guys I served with have one. They don’t mean much to us.”

  “Clusters?”

  Stone waved his hand. “You get an oak leaf cluster for each injury received after the initial award.”

  “So you’ve been injured in combat five times?” Her eyes were wide with awe.

  Stone forced himself to sound nonchalant. Don’t play into it. “That’s just what got reported. You have to meet certain criteria, and it has to be a matter of official record. Not everything we do as SEALs is part of official, public military record.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know the difference between Navy SEALs and regular servicemen?”

  “Special Forces, right? It means you’re more trained.”

  He nodded. “Well, yeah. But it means, because we received special training, that we get sent on special missions. A lot of what I did, meaning, pretty much all of it, is classified. Meaning, I couldn’t tell you specifics even if I wanted to. And when we’re on those special missions, if one of us gets wounded, it’s not likely to get reported in such a way as to meet the criteria for a Purple Heart. And we don’t really want them, anyway. We don’t do what we do for medals.”

  “Do you have any other medals?”

  Stone shifted in his seat, slowing the car to drift around a wide turn. “Yeah.”

  “Really? Which one?”

  Stone sighed, not wanting to talk about it, but knowing he couldn’t just clam up now. “Silver Star.”

  “Is that the highest one?”

  “No. The highest is the Medal of Honor. The Silver Star is the third highest.”

  “So what did you do to earn it?” Wren’s eyes were getting wider with every exchange.

  It made Stone uncomfortable, but it also had the egotistical part of him swelling up and wanting to keep impressing her.

  “Look, we’re getting into territory that I’m not comfortable with. I’m sorry. Do you know any other combat vets?” Wren shook her head. “Well, we don’t really like talking about our experiences. Combat isn’t something we like to relive. As to how I received the Silver Star…it’s a classified mission. Meaning I can’t tell you much about it. What I can tell you is it’s the same mission that got me wounded and discharged. All that’s really important is that I did what I had to do to save a few of my buddies. It was a tight spot, and I…had to get us out of it. It was my job, so I did it. I’d trade the medal a hundred times over to have my guys back. To have my career back.”

  “You lost friends on the mission?”

  “Yeah. More than one. The whole thing went FUBAR.”

  “Foo-what?”

  “Effed up beyond all recognition. It means it went really, really bad.” Wren colored at the vulgar acronym, and Stone had to laugh.

  “So have you ever—”

  “I’d rather not talk about that,” Stone interrupted. He hated that question.

  Wren kept going. “I was going to ask if you’ve ever told anyone that story. I wouldn’t ask…what you thought.”

  “Oh. Sorry. No, I never have.” He’d brought them onto the U of V campus, and Wren pointed to a cluster of residence buildings. He parked in front of the one she indicated, and then left the car idling. “It’s the kind of thing you’d rather forget.”

  “Would you ever consider telling anyone? Someone really special, maybe?”

  “Someone special?”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t quite look at him, toying with a rivet on the pocket of her jeans. “Someone you were with.”

  Stone let his head thump against the headrest. “Wren, I don’t know if I’m—if I could be that guy for you.”

  She didn’t respond right away. “Why not?”

  “Why do you want to know what happened so bad?”

  “It’s not about that. I just…I’m curious. About you.” She ducked her head. “I like you. I want to know what makes you…you.”

  “Well, like I said. I’m not sure I’m—”

  “Isn’t that my decision?”

  “It’s a two-way thing, I’m pretty sure.”

  “So do you like me?”

  Stone laughed. “Should I check yes or no, too?”

  Wren blushed, and then her expression tightened into anger. “I’m not a little girl, Stone. Excuse me for putting my feelings out there.” She shoved open the door, slid out, and slammed it behind her.

  Stone watched her walk away, feeling bad for having hurt her feelings, and mixed up about what he should have done differently. He wasn’t right for her. Maybe it was for the best that she got mad and left. Maybe she’d shift her interest to someone more appropriate.

  But, as he drove home, he couldn’t help the disappointment from bubbling up. He did like her. He just didn’t think that was a good thing for her.

  He ended up back in the gym, lifting free weights until his arms trembled, and then running on the treadmill until his legs were jelly and his scarred thigh was throbbing with hot aching agony. And still, despite the physical exhaustion, Stone couldn’t fall asleep for the longest time.

  Dark eyes and bright smiles and thick black hair haunted his dreams when he did finally fall asleep. It was a damn sight better than the recurring nightmares he usually experienced, dreamed memories of the mission that went bad.

  3

  ~Now~

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She woke instantly, and this time the pain was what woke her. She was on her back, hog-tied. Voices spoke above her in rapid Filipino. His voice, and three others.

  Her jaw hurt, and she realized she was gagged.

  She couldn’t see, and she realized she was blindfolded.

  She was dizzy, disoriented, sludgy. The drug was in her system, muddling her brain.

  The four voices were arguing, angry. She tried not to let them know she was awake. Whenever they knew she was awake, they shot her full of that awful drug, and they hit her. Sometimes they fed her, gave her water. Never enough, though. And sometimes, the food had things in it that wriggled as she chewed. It was something in her belly,
though, and that was better than nothing. She was so hungry. All the time. And so thirsty.

  She hurt.

  My name is Wren Morgan. She focused on that. Held on to it. It was all she had. All she knew.

  A hand slapped her face, but she refused to give in to the pain, refused to give away the fact that she was awake.

  The hand slapped her hard, again and again. “Up, American girl. Up.” The gag was removed.

  “Okay! Stop hitting me, please…I’m awake.” Her jaw ached and her throat was raw, vocal chords scraping. Even her voice hurt.

  “I tink you play games. You awake, play like you not. Stupid American. I know when you lie.” His voice. Dark and evil and slithering like serpents in tall grass.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Let me go.”

  He just laughed. “Oh no. I tink no. You make me bery rich.”

  “My parents, they’ll pay ransom. Please.”

  “I got petter idea.” He slapped her again, but perfunctorily. “I sell you.”

  “Sell? Sell me? To…to who?”

  “Dat we find out. Pretty American girl? You wort a lot of money.”

  She felt something cold against her breastbone. She fought to remember what it was, that cold metal thing between her breasts. Her cross. Her little silver cross. Her mom had given it to her as an adoption-day present four years ago, and it was her most prized possession.

  A hand grabbed her chin, pushed her face from one side to another. Fingers pried her mouth open, dirty fingers tasting foul. She twisted her face away, and a closed-fist blow rocked her to one side. Her cheek throbbed, and she fought tears. Hands groped her, poked her arms, felt her biceps, rubbed a strand of her hair. Squeezed her breasts cruelly, pinching, lifting, weighing. She fought this violation as best she could, fought, fought. Until a fist bashed her into stillness, and the hands continued to grope and pinch. Her shirt was lifted, her bra jerked down to bare her skin. Her breasts were examined. That was what this was: an examination. A perusal of goods. When the examination ended, hinges squealed and the voices moved away, discussing her in low, quick Filipino. She was left alone, tied up, clothes rucked and her chest exposed. Her cheek throbbed, her skin ached. A tooth was loose in her mouth.