Praise for
CATHERINE PALMER
and her novels

“Catherine Palmer pens a page-turner with a…thought-provoking plot.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Fatal Harvest

“Palmer knows how to write about a sensitive subject with wisdom and kindness.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Thread of Deceit

“Marked by top-notch writing and sweeping drama.”

— Library Journal on The Briton

“Veteran romance writer Palmer…delivers a satisfying tale of mother-daughter dynamics sprinkled with romance.”

— Library Journal on Leaves of Hope

“Enjoyable…Faith fiction fans will find this novel just their cup of tea.”

— Publishers Weekly Religion Bookline on Leaves of Hope

“Believable characters tug at heartstrings, and God’s power to change hearts and lives is beautifully depicted.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews on “Christmas in My Heart” in That Christmas Feeling

“ Love’s Haven is a glorious story that was wonderfully told…. Catherine Palmer did a stand-up job of describing each scene and creating a world which no reader will want to leave.”

— Cataromance Reviews

Christy Award-Winning Author

Stranger In The Night
Catherine Palmer

A Haven Novel

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the refugees in Clarkston, Georgia,

who have brought such joy into my life.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to those who shared stories of their work with refugees. In particular, I’m grateful to Tim Cummins, Terry Earl, Bennett Ekandem, Kim Kimbrell and all the caseworkers and other staff at World Relief. May God bless each of you. As always, my gratitude to my husband is boundless. Thank you for reading every word—sometimes more than once. I love you, Tim.

“When a stranger sojourns with you in your land,

you shall not do him wrong.

The stranger who sojourns with you

shall be to you as the native among you,

and you shall love him as yourself…

I am the Lord your God.”

— Leviticus 19:33–34

“Come, you who are blessed by the Father,

inherit the Kingdom prepared for you

from the foundation of the world.

For…I was a stranger,

and you took me in.”

— Jesus Christ

Matthew 25:34–35

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

S weat dampening the wrinkled sheet beneath him, Joshua Duff counted the spurts of AK-47 bullets hitting the front door. The first round slipped into his nightmare—house check on a nameless street in Kabul. A search for insurgents. Dread crawled through him like a snake, twining around his neck, suffocating him as he crept forward in the heat. Faces stared at him, brown eyes luminous beneath long, fringed black lashes. Mouths smiled, lips parting over missing teeth. Hands reached out, fingers extended.

Friend? Or enemy?

The second round of staccato hammering woke Joshua from the troubled dream. The strangled breaths were his own. Jerking upright, he reached for a gun that wasn’t there. The smell of gym shoes, basketballs, dusty concrete caught in his nostrils. This was not his barracks.

Or was it?

His eyes searched the darkness. Confusion tore through his brain as he worked to decipher data. A form lay on a bed across from him. The mound of muscled shoulder was motionless. Another man sprawled on a mattress near the door.

Comrade or civilian?

Asleep or dead?

A single window filled the only visible wall.

Somewhere nearby, an animal snuffled.

Death still stalking him, perspiration beading his bare chest, Joshua gripped the rounded aluminum frame of his cot. He licked his lips, expecting grit. Its absence surprised him. The tendon in his jaw flickered as he tried to force reality into his brain.

Of all the adversaries he’d faced in his thirty years, this was the most wily. This doubt and hesitation, this inability to decode the truth, eluded him like a Taliban sniper in the Hindu Kush Mountains. He tensed, waiting for an imam’s voice to drift from a distant minaret, the morning melody of Islam. The start of another day.

The hammering rang out a third time. Not a machine gun, it was fist against metal.

“Devil take ’em.” Sam Hawke’s familiar voice was drowsy in the stifling room. Hawke was a fellow Marine. Reconnaissance. They had patrolled the streets together too many times to count.

The other man unfolded now, a hiss groaning through the air mattress beneath him. “Where’s Duke? Come here, boy.”

A German shepherd’s low-throated growl answered. Joshua recognized it. He had seen the dog before. But where? Toenails clicked across the cement floor as Duke paced. The edges of Joshua’s nightmare began to sift away like desert sand.

“I’ll get the door,” Sam said, rising. He glanced at Joshua. “Duff, you stay put. Let’s go, Terell.”

Terell Roberts—the third man’s name. He stood and stretched. His dark skin shimmered with perspiration.

Duke tensed, waiting for one of them to open the door. The dog anticipated each movement the men made. He knew this routine.

Sam flipped on a lamp and Joshua scanned the room, distinguishing a heap of jeans and T-shirts awaiting detergent and a dryer. He noted a clipboard near his cot, the list of activities Sam had planned for the coming day. Joshua recalled his friend handing it to him, explaining what he’d written—basketball practice, homework and tutoring, woodworking, computer skills, ballet lessons, crochet, arts and crafts.

Hardly the business of their Marine Corps reconnaissance unit.

He spotted his wallet and keys on a low table. That wallet held U. S. tens, twenties, fifties. More than a month had passed since he’d carried colorful paper afghanis with their detailed etchings of mosques, and handfuls of jingling puls in his uniform pockets. He had rented a civilian car at the airport. He recalled parking the black Cadillac near the building’s front door the evening before.

This was what they called post-combat disorder. Post-traumatic stress syndrome…

A fourth round of hammering broke his focus.

“Persistent booger,” Sam muttered.

Shaking off his confusion, Joshua got to his feet. “What’s up, Hawke?”

“Nothing. We get this every night. Homeless folks in search of a bed, a drink, another fix bang on Haven’s door. Some think it says Heaven.”

“Yeah, and they’re ready.” Terell chuckled ruefully as he stepped into a pair of flip-flops.

Joshua recalled the old building now. Haven, the sign over the entrance read. This was Sam Hawke’s place, the youth center he and Terell Roberts had opened about a year ago. While deployed together, Sam had told Joshua about playing basketball in college. He had spoken of Terell, the consummate athlete, destined for the history books. Last night, Joshua learned that Terell had spent a few years in the pros before bottoming out. Sam had come to his rescue, and with the last of Terell’s NBA savings, they had started Haven.

Sam Hawke was loyal, a man who never forgot a friend. Joshua hadn’t been home in Amarillo for a full day before Sam called and invited his friend to St. Louis.

“Come see what I’ve got cooking, Duff,” Sam had urged. “Your old man is planning to slip those velvet handcuffs around your wrists any day now. Get over here and pay me a visit while you can.”

The idea of spending time at a youth center in the run-down inner city didn’t appeal to Joshua. He had invested more than enough of himself in the poverty and danger of Afghanistan. His parents’ rambling adobe house with its swimming pool and tennis court looked pretty good. He would enjoy riding out on one of the Arabians his father bred. There would be dinners with friends and family, flying over the spread in the Cessna, heading into town for a…

Come to think of it, Joshua couldn’t figure out what he’d want to do in Amarillo. The ranch certainly wasn’t going anywhere. His father’s oil business and the executive position could wait, too. With his parents both protesting, he had grabbed his duffel bag and headed back to the airport.

In St. Louis, he had rented the Cadillac. Then he drove into the city. Though it was late when Joshua arrived at Haven, he, Sam and Terell had stayed up talking for hours. When his head hit the pillow, Joshua had expected to sleep at least until the sun came up. But it seemed the two directors of the youth center were accustomed to regular interruptions of their night’s rest.

“Armed?” Sam asked Terell as they stood in the half-light of the large room.

Expecting the men to reach for handguns, Joshua was surprised when Terell picked up a can of pepper spray. Defensive weapon. Strange choice, he thought.

Sam reached for a box he kept under his bed. He offered it to his friend.

Gleaming steel knives. Joshua glanced up in confusion. Sam and he were both expert marksmen.

“We keep a low profile around here,” Sam said with a shrug.

Fingers closing around a slender stiletto, razor sharp, Joshua considered his friend’s arsenal. A knife was an offensive weapon. That fit with what he knew of Sam Hawke. Highly trained leaders, the men were still very much alike.

The German shepherd led the way out of the humid room, across a dank landing to a flight of chipped concrete steps.

“Male,” Terell said as they began the descent.

“Agreed.” Sam’s voice was husky. “White.”

“Nah, black. A kid. Scared.”

Joshua realized this must be a nightly guessing game.

“Middle-aged,” Sam offered. “Drunk.”

“Bleeding.”

“Probably.” Sam picked up a first-aid kit near the stairwell. “Knife wound.”

“Gunshot.”

None of it sounded good to Joshua.

The three men crossed the cavernous gym, the site of Haven’s single basketball court, two foursquare layouts, and just enough room for a gaggle of jump-ropers. Duke huffed with anticipation as he padded ahead. Yet another round of knocking began as they arrived at the front door.

“Whatcha need?” Terell called.

“Open the door. Please open.”

At the pleading voice outside, Sam and Terell looked at each other, blue eyes meeting brown.

“Illegal alien,” Sam said. “Adult male. Lost.”

“Bet he got kicked out of his apartment,” Terell muttered, reaching for the bar that secured the door.

Joshua weighed the stiletto in his palm. Earlier that evening, Sam had told him that African-American kids were a consistent majority at Haven. Latin Americans were part of the mix, too—most poor, persecuted, living on the brink. Unable to obtain visas or achieve refugee status, their parents had spent all they had and risked their lives to enter the U. S. illegally.

But the composition of the neighborhood had begun to change in recent months. Charitable foundations were resettling refugees by the score in St. Louis. An influx of immigrants from Burma, Somalia, Sudan, Congo, Bosnia and other war-torn countries led to new youngsters stepping timidly through the metal detector at Haven’s front door.

Long ago, Sam and Terell had decided to take a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding legal documentation, they told Joshua. Haven was about the business of God’s work. And the Lord had laid out a clear mandate for His people to welcome the alien.

“You ready?” Sam asked, flicking a glance at Joshua.

He gave a brief nod as he sized up Terell. Tall and massively built, the man held up his slender can of pepper spray while Sam lifted the bar and drew back the bolt.

At the slide and click of metal against metal, wisps of Joshua’s nightmare floated across his mind. He gritted his teeth. The door swung open.

Liz Wallace turned a page in her scrapbook and ran a fingertip over the photograph of her parents waving goodbye at St. Louis’s Lambert Airport. They had no clue that within three days, their precious child would be sitting down to a meal of roasted bush rat.

In fact, they never found out the whole story. You couldn’t just fire off an e-mail that read, Hi Mom and Dad. Ate monkey meat and fried termites for dinner today.

This was not the kind of thing that would boost their enthusiasm for Liz’s dreams of becoming a foreign aid worker. Of course, her brief trip to the Democratic Republic of Congo hadn’t exactly been about transforming the plight of a Third World nation. She and her college teammates went to help rebuild a primary school that had been hit too many times by mortar fire. They put up a few walls and hurried home.

But that trip, more than a year before, had changed Liz’s life. The moment she graduated from college, she took a job with Refugee Hope, a resettlement agency in St. Louis. Her goal: to learn Swahili, enter a training program and move to Africa to work for the United Nations in refugee camps.

On this stifling night, unable to sleep after long hours toting supplies to incoming families from Burma and Bosnia, Liz couldn’t sleep. Not unusual. Most days she was so exhausted she could hardly stand up. But after arriving home to her studio apartment, eating a quick bite of dinner and checking her schedule for the next day, she felt her second wind kick in. Wide-awake and unable to turn off her brain by 2:00 a.m., she made a cup of decaf tea and settled on her sofa with the scrapbook.

Liz turned the page and studied the faces gazing back at her, impassive and worn. She had briefly considered decorating the page in the colors of the Congo flag and placing stickers of wild animals here and there. But why distract from the beauty of the Congolese people with their buttery chocolate skin and deep eyes?

Yet what suffering the people had endured. Until that trip, Liz had never heard of such horrors. She understood now that Rwanda’s civil war had sent nearly a million refugees pouring over the border into Congolese camps. When those refugees began to build power to retake their homeland, they enlisted the help of men in Congo’s government. That brought resistance.

War began in Congo in the fall of 1996, complete with genocide, looting and genital mutilation. In some areas, soldiers raped more than half the women. Almost fifty thousand children were kidnapped and forced into combat, slave labor, sexual servitude.

Not long after a cease-fire was signed in 1999, insurgent groups led a second uprising. Yet another peace treaty was signed in 2003. By the time Liz arrived in Kinshasa, more than four million people had died. Some were killed in the conflict, but most perished from disease and starvation.

Three million were homeless. Houses, hospitals and schools lay in rubble. Fields and food supplies were burned. People hovered on the brink of starvation.

Under the umbrella organization of Refugee Hope, Liz cared for many of those woeful survivors who arrived in St. Louis. She wasn’t doing much to help, though. Her job was mostly desk work. Filing government forms.

She wondered if anyone could prevent genocide. Probably not.

Four sets of dark eyes stared back at Joshua. He had seen this before—a man, a woman, two children, a plea for help written on earnest faces. Their innocence could belie a body strapped with explosives. In battle, Joshua had learned not to trust any expression of virtue. But this wasn’t warfare—not the combat kind, anyway.

With a tired smile, Sam stepped into the open doorway of Haven. “Hey, there,” he greeted them. “What can we do for you tonight?”

The man gave an awkward little bow. Skin of polished ebony glowed in the streetlight. His gray shirt was too big, made of cotton, short-sleeved and wrinkled. Khaki trousers sagged at the ankles. Shoes, cracked patent leather with frayed laces, had parted at the seams to reveal threadbare socks.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, clutching a battered suitcase. A faint British accent, Joshua noticed. “I am Stephen Rudi. If you please, may I present my wife, Mary. And here is my daughter, Charity, and my son, Virtue. We come from Paganda.”

“What are you folks doing on the street at this time of night?” Sam asked. “This is a dangerous area.”

“Yeah, and it’s after two in the morning.” Terell was peering at his Rolex, evidently a vestige of his once-lucrative basketball career. “Mr. Rudi, your children ought to be in bed.”

“Indeed, sir. But we have had a most unfortunate day. Please, may I explain? You see, we had recently arrived in Atlanta when we received a letter from my wife’s brother. This man is our only family member to escape the recent unrest in Paganda. He invited us to join him here, where we could live with him and find better jobs. We traveled to St. Louis by bus, arriving this morning. But we searched all day, and we could not find him.”

“Aha.” Terell stifled a yawn. “So, you’re from where? South Africa?”

“Paganda, sir. It is in East Africa, near Lake Victoria.”

Joshua could see that neither Sam nor Terell recognized the country. He didn’t recall much about it himself. Former British colony. Few natural resources. Tribal conflict—humanity’s constantly failing effort to eradicate enemies. Sunnis and Shiites. Kurds and Iraqis. Hindus and Muslims. Nazis and Jews. Spaniards and Aztecs. Settlers and Natives. Boers and British.

Extermination never worked, but people forgot that. Again and again they attempted the wholesale slaughter of their foes. Genocide wouldn’t end until trumpets rang out in the eastern sky to announce the end of time.

“You still got that letter?” Terell asked, focusing on the man’s wife. “Uh…what was the name?”

“Mary.” Stephen Rudi spoke for her. He fished in his pocket and then unfolded a tattered sheet of notebook paper. Holding it out to Terell, he tapped a place near the end of the page. “This is the address, sir, but my wife’s brother is not to be found. Our search revealed nothing, not even the correct street.”

While Terell and Sam studied the letter, Joshua appraised the Pagandan woman who stood beside her husband. Tiny and thin-boned, she wore large round spectacles that all but masked the distinguishing features of her face. She kept her eyes downcast and her fingers woven together, as if determined to draw no attention to herself. Joshua had seen this attempt at self-preservation in Afghani women and children. An effort to hide in plain sight.

A scarf, elaborately knotted, covered her head. Her dress, threadbare pink gingham with eyelet lace at the neck, was mostly covered by a length of ethnic-patterned fabric. She had wrapped it in a sort of African sarong. The woman had the look of a frightened bird.

Turning his assessment to the two children, Joshua saw exhaustion weighing on them. They gazed up at their father in a mixture of respect and concern. Charity’s hair was braided in messy cornrows. Her bright almond eyes glowed with intelligence. She had white teeth, a pug nose, round cheeks. She would do well in school, Joshua thought.

The boy was a mirror image of his older sister—minus the cornrows and several teeth. How did so many five-year-olds manage to lose their two front teeth not long before Christmas? he wondered. The old song “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth” wouldn’t be meaningful without a few toothless kids belting it out.

“I don’t think that street exists,” Terell commented. He passed the letter to Sam. “You ever heard of this place?”

Joshua eyed the document as his friend read it. Pulled from a college-ruled notebook, the page had been handled so much it was about to fall apart. Messy pencil marks were smudged, hard to read. A grease spot had blurred the signature. In the upper-right corner, a water ring muddied the blue lines. The letter was written in an African language, but the address at the end was clear enough.

Sam returned the precious page to its owner. “You sure this is in St. Louis, Mr. Rudi?”

“Indeed, sir.” Stephen glanced at his wife, suddenly hesitant. He spoke to her in their mother tongue for a moment. Head low, she uttered a couple of barely distinguishable words in response.

Stephen nodded. “If you please, sir. My wife is quite certain her brother lives in St. Louis.”

Terell and Sam eyed each other for a moment. Finally Sam spoke up. “I’m sorry, but Haven is not a homeless shelter. Our mission statement prohibits taking in strangers. We have a rule.”

Joshua couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He nudged his friend’s elbow. “Sam, can I talk to you for a second?” They stepped back into the building. “Since when did you abide by rules?”

“If we let these folks in,” Sam replied in a low voice, “we can’t turn anyone else away.”

“Come on, man. We can’t leave those kids on the street.”

Sam gave him a long look and shrugged. “I’ll probably regret this, but okay.”

As they emerged onto the sidewalk, Joshua reached for the children’s hands. “Come on, you two. The sooner you’re settled, the sooner we can all get some sleep.”

Sam let out a breath. “We’ll put you up for the night, Mr. Rudi. No longer than a week, though.”

“That’s our max, so don’t try to argue us out of it.” Terell spoke as firmly as he could, which wasn’t saying much. “Do you understand?”

Terell Roberts looked as if he could tear a man’s head off. But his gentle tone led Joshua to believe the guy was a bona fide teddy bear—compliant, impossibly kind, generous. How would he respond in a conflict situation?

“We would never wish to impose upon your kindness,” Stephen vowed to his benefactors as Sam bolted the door behind them. “Indeed, we are sincerely grateful.”

The Rudi family accompanied Terell across the basketball court toward the stairwell. Sam followed with Joshua.

“They’ll beg for more time,” Sam said under his breath. “They always do. The homeless, hungry, sick, battered, dying—they come to Haven hoping for a solution to their problems.”

“Do they ever find one?”

“Temporarily. We let them stay a night or two until they find other quarters. Relief agencies, shelters, food kitchens fill the gap. But it’s never enough.”

“Doesn’t the constant need drag you down?”

“Nah. It’s like the war. You focus on the good, the hopeful.”

“Your fiancée?”

Sam smiled. “Ana helps.”

The woman who had walked into Sam’s life that summer brought him to life again, he had told Joshua. He felt almost human for the first time since his military discharge. Sam said Ana’s intensity matched his own. She could be difficult and definitely stubborn. But with Ana, he could let down his guard.

Joshua was happy for his friend. He’d been too long without a woman in his own life, and he didn’t see much prospect for that changing anytime soon. Most of the girls at home were provincial. They believed everything they heard on television. Few had set foot outside the U. S. Some had never left Texas.

One or two women had caught Joshua’s eye while in Afghanistan, but a military romance was not for him. He enjoyed a lady who knew how the world functioned, but he didn’t want the separation or anxiety of such a relationship. He wouldn’t like to worry about safety. If he ever found love, he couldn’t risk losing it. So he had kept himself distant, focused on the task at hand.

“Ana’s not the only good thing in my life,” Sam said as they approached the stairwell. “We’ve got a lot to be thankful for around here. Lead paint abatement crews just finished stripping and recoating our walls. Ana wrote an article about the paint problem, and a surge of donations poured in. We formed a nonprofit organization—complete with a board of directors and grant writers. The bathrooms are finally working. The ramps, exits and stairwells meet code. It’s been a long haul.”

“The place looks good,” Joshua agreed.

“We’ve got new volunteers, too. Plus, the vet gave Duke an all-clear this morning. Hip dysplasia forced him out of police K-9 service too early, but he’s been God’s gift to us.”

“And this Pagandan family. Thanks to Haven, they’ll sleep safely tonight.”

“You’re the one who made that happen,” Sam said. “We’ve turned away people a lot more pitiful.”

“I’d never let a kid sleep on the streets. You wouldn’t, either, Hawke. You know it.”

As they began to climb the steps to the second floor, Charity and Virtue stretched tiny hands to pat the big dog. Joshua guessed the canine had been trained to sniff out drugs and could take down a grown man, but these small children sensed he wouldn’t harm them.

When Virtue sagged against the stairwell wall, Joshua lifted the tired boy into his arms. Sam scooped up the little girl.

“So Paganda has some big cities?” Terell was asking their father.

“One,” Stephen said. “But we come from a small village beside Lake Victoria. Our people were fishermen.”

“Were?” Terell frowned. “You mean they stopped?”

“Sir, the village was burned. My people…are not there now.”

Joshua silently prayed that Terell would take the hint. But subtlety was not the man’s strong suit.

“Headed for refugee camps, I’ll bet. Good thing you got your family out.”

“My children and I are three of only nine people who survived from my village.” Stephen paused in the stairwell, his voice growing low. “When my wife learned that the rebel army was coming, she placed these two—the youngest except for our baby—inside a metal water drum. There were only a few liters remaining inside it, and she put a padlock on the top. Because of rust, the drum had small holes. Through these, the air could come. When I returned to my house, I saw that the roof and walls had burned. Rebels had looted the furnishings. But God protected the drum. Inside it, I found my two children.”

As Stephen spoke the final words, a chill crawled up Joshua’s spine. The drowsy little boy whose head lolled against his shoulder had survived the destruction of his village because his mother had hidden him in a water drum? At their young ages, the kids might have drowned. The burning house could have caved in on top of them. They might have been discovered and killed. The child was a miracle.

“But where were you the whole time?” Terell asked Stephen as the group walked down a hall.

His grunt was bitter. “I was attending a pastors’ meeting in another town. When I heard news of the rebel attack, I rode my bicycle as fast as I could. But I arrived at my village too late.”

“So your baby? What…I mean…Where’s the baby?”

Shaking his head, Joshua realized that Tyrell had never seen the shell-shocked faces of civilians whose lives were destroyed by war and death. His own inability to shrug off nightmares and block memories of events he had witnessed showed how difficult it could be to recover from such trauma.

“My son, Justice, was killed,” Stephen said, the words muffled. “Also my first wife, Priscilla, and my other children, Purity, Hope, Fidelity and Honor. I would thank you, please, that we not discuss this subject further tonight, sir. By God’s grace, I still have Charity and Virtue. I must protect them from the memories of what they heard and saw.”

“Oh, yeah, my brother. We can drop that topic forever.” Terell looked shaken.

The group stepped into a small room outfitted with several beds and a table. Despite its rules, Haven had made provisions for just such an emergency as this.

“You’ve got clean sheets there,” Sam said. “We keep crackers and power bars on that shelf. Towels and soap are in the bathroom, along with paper drinking cups.”

“I could run out for some milk,” Terell offered. “I’d be glad to do it.”

“Water is most acceptable for us.” Stephen faced his benefactors. “May God bless you for your kindness.”

Joshua bent and gently laid the sleeping Virtue on one of the beds. He pulled a sheet and thin blanket over the child. Thumb thrust into his mouth, Virtue barely stirred. Charity, too, was sound asleep.

When he straightened, Joshua noted that Sam and Terell had left the room. Stephen was murmuring to his wife. It was time to leave the family in peace. Yet Joshua needed to speak.

“Excuse me,” he said. The two Pagandans fell silent as Joshua addressed Stephen. “You’re a pastor, then. A Christian.”

“I am, sir.”

Joshua hesitated a moment. “The pain and the loss you feel. The fear, too. I’ve known some of that. God takes care of it after a while. He uses it to make you better. Trust Him.”

Stephen swallowed, unable to meet the other man’s eyes. He nodded slightly, but did not otherwise respond.

“Good night,” Joshua said finally. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

He closed the door and started after Terell, who was questioning Sam as they walked to their shared room. “Did you hear what that guy said? Rebels killed his baby. His baby! That is just wrong. Those other names—were those his kids, too?”

“Yeah, and his wife,” Joshua said, catching up to them.

Sam frowned. “But his wife is with him.”

“Mary must be someone new. He said Priscilla was the mother of his children.”

Terell groaned. “Aw, man, the first wife must have gotten killed by the rebels. Sam, those two kids were locked in a barrel. They could have starved.”

“Or been slaughtered like their brothers and sisters. But they’re alive—that’s the important thing.”

Joshua nodded. “Now the family has to figure out a way to move ahead without the past dragging them down. Like all of us.”

He could feel Terell’s eyes on him as they entered the room. “You think the kids heard their mama being murdered?”

“Maybe. They know she’s dead.”

“That’s terrible, yo. If anybody went after my mama, I’d kill him.”

“Good job. You just described the basic recipe for genocide.” Joshua stretched out on the cot. “Revenge never did anyone a bit of good.”

Sam dropped down onto his bed. “Let it go, Terell.”

“You dudes don’t have any feelings. I can’t hear a story like that and then let it go. Those are my people.”

Sam gave a snort as he switched off the lamp. “They’re not your people any more than they’re mine.”

“They’re black. Africans are my ancestors.”

“And my great-great-grandfather was a Scottish laird. You don’t see me playing bagpipes and dancing a jig.”

Joshua knew he should let the two men hash it out, but he couldn’t resist offering his thoughts. “We’re all connected. Forget skin color and bloodlines. God doesn’t see that. Neither should we.”

“Haven may not have room for everyone,” Sam said. “But we’re here to help the Rudi family. If his wife’s killers walked in here, we’d probably help them, too. Get over yourself, Terell.”

“Me? You’re both loony tunes. The sand in your heads rusted out your brains. Go find a couple of camels, yo. Get on back to the desert where you belong.”

Joshua could hear Sam chuckling. A comforting sound. In a moment, both men began to snore.

Joshua stroked the warm steel blade in his palm. Turning onto his stomach, he slipped the knife under his pillow. It might just come in handy.

Chapter Two

L iz locked her purse inside the drawer under her desk and switched on the computer. She was tired. Too tired to be at work this early in the morning. But the day wouldn’t wait.

Before meeting a Somali family at the airport at ten, she had to fill out status reports on two groups of Burmese immigrants brought in by Refugee Hope. They had landed in St. Louis the week before. Ragged, little more than skin and bones, they had stared at her with gaunt faces and milky eyes. At the sight of an energetic white woman with a mass of brunette curls, the children clung to each other. Their parents couldn’t quite muster a smile at having finally arrived in America, the land of their dreams.

With a sigh, Liz shook her head.

“Incoming!” Her closest friend at the agency breezed past the small cubicle. Molly stuck a thumb behind her to indicate the cluster of people headed Liz’s way. “They’re all yours!”

Molly loved mornings.

Liz groaned and reached for her flask of hot tea. Before work, she always steeped a pot of the strongest black tea on the market. The first cup opened her eyes. The second turned on her brain. With the third, she usually had the gumption to say—

“No.” Holding up a palm, Liz rose from her chair before the newcomers could step into her cubicle. “I don’t know who sent you here, but you have the wrong office.”

“No?” A tall man with close-cropped brown hair stepped around the collection of bewildered Africans. His dark eyebrows narrowed. “Did you say no?”

“I’m sorry, but this is not one of my families.” She met his blue eyes. Deep navy with white flecks, they stared straight into her.

Why hadn’t she started that third cup on the drive to work?

“I know my own people,” she informed him. “This group doesn’t belong to me. If you’ll go back to the front office—”

“The front office sent us to you.” Gaze unwavering, he stuck out a hand. “Sergeant Joshua Duff, U. S. Marine Corps. And you are?”

“Liz.” She grasped the hand. His warm fingers curled around her palm, crushing her knuckles together. She caught her breath. “Liz Wallace.”

“A Scot. I’m Irish.”

“American, actually.” She pulled her hand away and stuck it in the pocket of her slacks. “So, Semper Fi and all that. I appreciate the interest you’ve taken in these people, Sergeant, but Refugee Hope is accountable only for the families we relocate. If you’re responsible for this group, you’ll have to—”

“Semper Fi and all that?” He leaned forward, as if he weren’t sure he heard her correctly.

Oh, great, Liz thought. She picked up her flask, unscrewed the lid and poured the third cup. Praying he couldn’t see her hand trembling, she lifted the mug to her lips. The tea slid down her throat.

This was not what she needed a few minutes after eight in the morning. Not an overwhelming, overbearing, overly handsome sergeant with a death grip. And certainly not a pair of striking blue eyes that never seemed to blink.

“Sergeant Duff.” She found a smile and hoped it looked sincere. “Please forgive my lack of courtesy. I have a large number of families in my caseload. An overwhelming number. This group isn’t among them.”

With effort, she dragged her focus from the man’s sculpted cheekbones and clean-shaven square jaw. The group huddled under his protection shrank into each other as she assessed them. A man, midforties, she guessed. His wife, hard to tell her age behind those big glasses, clearly traumatized. Two children. The girl, about seven, needing new clothes. The boy, probably five, missing several front teeth.

“This is Reverend Stephen Rudi,” Sergeant Duff said, clamping his big hand on the man’s shoulder. “His wife, Mary. Their children, Charity and Virtue. They’re from Paganda.”

Paganda. Images flashed into Liz’s mind. Photographs she’d seen. Villages burning. Mass graves. Boy soldiers toting machine guns. She thought of the people she had met in Congo. They spoke of Paganda in hushed tones. Even worse than most places, they said. Genocide. A bloodbath.

Liz shuddered and sized up the little family more closely. Who knew what these people had endured? Too often these days, she caught herself regarding the refugees as line items on one of her many lists. Family from Burundi: mother, father, eight children. Family from Bosnia: mother, her brother, four children. Family from Ivory Coast: mother (pregnant), father, six children.

When had they ceased to be human beings?

“Reverend Rudi, good morning.” Liz offered her welcome in the African way—right hand extended, left hand placed on the opposite arm near the crook of the elbow. A demonstration of honor, as if to say, “I will not greet you with one hand and stab you with the other.”

The man stepped forward, shook her hand and made a little bow. “Good morning, madam. Thank you very much for your time. My family is in great need of assistance.”

How often had she heard these words, Liz wondered. The need was a pit, bottomless and gaping. A hungry mouth, never sated.

“Which agency brought you to St. Louis?” she asked him. It was a relief to turn her attention from Sergeant Duff. Like a male lion poised to spring, the man didn’t budge. His presence filled the cubicle with a sort of expectant energy Liz could hardly ignore.

Reverend Rudi’s voice was strained but warm, carrying familiar ministerial overtones. “Madam, Global Care brought my family from a refugee camp in Kenya. We traveled by airplane from Nairobi to Atlanta. My wife’s brother invited us to St. Louis.”

“Global Care doesn’t have an office here,” Duff inserted. “The Rudis will need your help.”

Liz returned her focus to his face. The man had moved closer to her desk now, his fingertips touching her stack of files, his shoulder tilted in her direction.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. As I said before, if Refugee Hope didn’t bring this family to the States, we won’t be able to provide assistance. The Rudis need to contact Global Care in Atlanta and make arrangements.”

“But as you see, they’re here now. So what can you do for them?”

“Nothing. I’m authorized to work only with my families. Those brought in by Refugee Hope.”

“So transfer them.”

She studied the blue eyes. He really did expect her to obey. He thought she would capitulate right on the spot. The man was used to giving orders, and to having them followed.

Liz had never done well with authority figures. She simply didn’t buckle.

“If Global Care wants to make provisions for this family,” she informed him, “you will need to speak to someone at their headquarters in Atlanta. Refugee Hope is based in Washington, D. C. St. Louis is a resettlement point. We follow our agency’s rules.”

Joshua Duff straightened. His eyes narrowed. Then he turned to the family. “Pastor Stephen, how about you go find a snack machine and get the kids something to eat.”

He fished a wallet from his pocket. Liz tried not to gawk at an accordion of cash that unfolded when he opened it. He removed several bills and held them out. The African minister took the money with some reluctance. Duff misunderstood.

“Snack machine.” He motioned as if he were pushing buttons with his index finger. “Food. Candy bars. Crackers.”

With a nod, Reverend Rudi shepherded his little flock out of the cubicle. The moment they were out of sight, Duff leaned into her desk.

“Listen, ma’am, I came across this family last night. I agreed to help them. You work for a refugee agency, right? These are refugees. So do your job.”

Liz stepped around her desk. “This is not the Marine Corps, Sergeant. But we do have a protocol and you’re asking me to violate it. I will not do that.”

The dark eyebrows lifted. “All right, I understand. So, what do we have to do to make this happen?”

“I’ve told you. Call Global Care and turn the family over to them.”

“And where is that pitiful bunch supposed to go while the agency figures out what to do with them?”

“You could put them on a bus and send them back to Atlanta.”

“They don’t want to live in Atlanta. They want to stay here and look for the lady’s brother.” He set one hip on her desk, bringing himself down to her eye level. “Ms. Wallace, you wouldn’t be working for this agency if you didn’t have compassion. These folks need a place to stay, decent jobs, a way to get around. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Why don’t you just help them out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Why don’t you? ”

“Because I live in Texas.”

He looked away, the muscle in his jaw flickering. Liz could see the man was struggling for control. Good. She had a full day of work ahead, and she didn’t like being pushed around.

In a moment, he faced her again. “Look, I’ve just spent seven months hunting insurgents in the Afghan mountains. My third deployment. I’m tired. My patience—never a strong suit—is wearing real thin right now. I came to St. Louis to visit a friend for a couple of days, and this morning he sent me out on a little mercy mission on behalf of Reverend Rudi and his family. Now, they’re nice folks, and they’ve been through an ordeal worse than most. I believe you know exactly how to arrange a happy American life for them, ma’am. Am I wrong about that?”

“I know how to resettle refugees, yes. But as I said, I’m not allowed to work with families who aren’t on my list. If you’re so worried, you help them. It’s time-consuming but not all that complicated. I’ll tell you what to do step by step. How does that sound?”

He bent his head and chuckled. “Well, well, well. You know something, Liz Wallace? You’re more trouble than a couple of Pashtuns haggling over the price of a camel. I can handle them. I can track a sniper across five miles of bare rock. I can even talk a sheikh into turning loose a few goats to feed some hungry beggars. But I can’t seem to get a social worker to help a family of refugees. Did I catch you on a bad day, or are you always this mean?”

Liz rolled her eyes. “Move. You’ve got your Duff on my files, Sergeant.”

With a laugh of disbelief, he stood. Liz scooped up her paperwork and flipped open the first file.

“You see this family?” she said, covering the name with her thumb. The photographs of four Somalis were lined up along one side. They looked like criminals posing for mug shots.

“This mother was raped by guerrilla soldiers. Seven of them. In front of her husband and children. They killed the father, the baby and the other two youngest of her five kids. Chopped them up with machetes. They took the oldest girl, raped her, tied her legs and arms together and then threw her into the back of their truck. They took the oldest boy as a slave. Then they drove away.”

She paused and glanced at Duff. His grim expression told Liz she was getting through.

“The mother never saw her children again,” she continued. “She was left with one daughter, a thirteen-year-old who had been fetching water from a stream when the rebels attacked. This woman and her daughter walked more than a hundred miles across the Somali desert into Kenya. They lived in a mud hut inside a United Nations refugee camp for five years. They ate gruel and got water from a spigot that served twenty other families. Both gave birth to sons. This mother, her daughter, son and grandson are here now. In St. Louis. Are you with me, Sergeant?”

“All the way.”

“Shall I continue?”

“Go ahead.” His face had grown solemn, but his eyes were not focused on the photographs. He was looking at Liz.

Disconcerted, she closed the file and set it back on her desk before speaking again.

“Two weeks ago, I greeted this woman and her family at the airport, Sergeant Duff. I took them to a run-down apartment in a high-rise not far from here. Refugee Hope has prepaid their rent for three months. Within those three months, it’s my job to make sure this mother learns how to use public transportation, goes to English language classes and attends job training. I have three months to enroll the daughter in a school where no one speaks her language and yet see that she’s able to cope. Three months to ensure that the two babies are brought back to health and provided with adequate day care. I have three months’ worth of funds with which to buy food and clothing. If this family isn’t successfully working, attending school, living independently and eating with proper nutrition in three months, I haven’t done my duty, Sergeant Duff. They’ll be cut loose from Refugee Hope, and no one will follow me to pick up the pieces.”

She looked into his eyes. The bluster was gone, and in its place, she saw a deep sympathy. A warmth. So unexpected she felt her heart stumble.

“How many families do you have, ma’am?”

“Twenty-three current groups. If I don’t get some work done at my desk this morning, I’ll be late to pick up family number twenty-four at Lambert. And you can call me Liz.”

“Liz.” He was silent for a moment. “I live in Amarillo, Liz. That’s a long way off.”

“But see, the Rudi family is here now.” She repeated what he had said to her earlier. “So what can you do for them?”

“You’re good. You’ve trapped me.”

“I can’t track a sniper over bare rock, but I’m not stupid. You wouldn’t have brought those people here if you didn’t have a compassionate streak. We’re alike in that way. Let me tell you how to help them, Sergeant.”

“You can call me Joshua.”

“You’ll enjoy lending a hand, Joshua. Lots more fun than dealing with squabbling sheikhs.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but the return of Reverend Rudi and his family silenced the Marine.

Charity and Virtue, it became evident, had discovered Cheetos. Their lips and fingers coated with orange dust, the two children sidled into the cubicle. Liz struggled not to laugh and scoop them up into her arms, as she so often did with the precious little ones who came under her wings of care. But she couldn’t afford to melt. Not now.

Sergeant Duff needed to take responsibility for this family. His wad of cash would surely buy bus tickets back to Atlanta. He was a good man, kind and concerned. But he had just returned from the war, and his home was in Texas. The last thing he would want to do was take on a group of Pagandans.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked, hunkering down in front of Virtue. “Let me see those fingers, kiddo.”

The child glanced up at his father. Pastor Stephen said something in their native tongue, and Virtue held out his hands. When he noticed his orange fingers, the boy gasped and then burst into a gale of giggles. His sister looked at her hands and started laughing, too.

“Cheetos,” Duff informed the pair. “Puffed or fried, can’t beat ’em. My favorite.”

He rubbed his stomach and made smacking sounds. The kids joined in, rubbing and smacking, clearly enjoying a moment of silliness in the midst of such a solemn day. Pastor Stephen held up the empty cellophane bag.

“The food is very…pink,” he told Liz. “Pardon me…orange. Yes, orange. Can it be washed?”

“Certainly,” she told him. “There’s a bathroom down the hall. You can stop by on your way out. I believe Sergeant Duff is going to help you contact Global Care and make sure you’re safely on your way back to Atlanta.”

“Am I?” Joshua stood, again filling the cubicle in a manner that seemed to dwarf everyone else in the tiny space. “I don’t remember telling you that, Ms. Wallace.”

“Liz. And I told you I couldn’t help them.”

“But you said you’d help me. You’ll tell me the steps, and I’ll settle the family here. Right?”

She couldn’t believe she had heard the man correctly. People didn’t do this. Volunteers might take a few hours out of their lives to assist refugees. A church might adopt a family or two. But no one dropped everything. No one single person simply gave up the weeks and months it took to acclimate an entire group. Liz was paid, and even she had to rely on other aid workers and volunteer helpers.

“You told me you live in Texas,” she said.

“Texas can wait. I’ll stick around here for a while.” He set his large palm on Virtue’s round head. “We’ll go to the airport with you and meet family number twenty-four. You can explain your system to me on the way.”

Liz bent her head and rubbed her eyes. This was absolutely not the way her morning should go. She had files to sort. Forms to fill out. A plane to meet. Clothing and food to deliver. A refugee patient to visit in the hospital. She did not need a U. S. Marine and four Pagandans following her around like a flock of lost sheep.

Unable to bring herself to speak, she held up her hand. Instantly, Joshua’s fingers closed around hers. As she lifted her head, he tucked her hand under his arm, splaying her fingers against his biceps.

“I don’t want to hear your favorite word, Liz,” he murmured, leaning close. “ No isn’t good. Yes is much better. Say yes to the Rudi family, Liz. If you say it, I will, too. And then we’ll make a difference together.”

Everything inside Liz begged to differ. But how could she keep arguing? The man refused to hear any of her very plausible reasons why his scenario wouldn’t work.

“Fine,” she said, pulling her hand from the warm crook of his elbow. “Step one. Take the Rudi family back where you found them. Make sure they have a decent place to live with running water, flushing toilets and enough beds. Drive them to the grocery store and buy a week’s supply of staples and a few perishables. Then go to a thrift shop and see if you can find several outfits for each person. And look for coats. Winter’s coming.”

She picked up a couple of business cards and handed one to Joshua and the other to Pastor Stephen. “Here’s my number. Call me if you need me.”

Before either man could protest, Liz pushed past Joshua and headed for Molly’s cubicle, leaving the five wayfarers standing inside her own. If this was going to be a good day, she needed fortification. Her best friend would be happy to accompany her to the coffee shop down the street for a couple of lattes.

A few hours later, Joshua pulled his Cadillac into a parking space in front of the large brick edifice and switched off the engine. He knew he shouldn’t do this. If he were at all smart, right this moment he’d be on his way back to Amarillo. After a couple of easy days on the road, he would drive out to the ranch. As a matter of fact, nothing would feel better than to strip off his jeans and T-shirt, dive into the Texas-shaped pool and swim a few laps.

No doubt Magdalena would put on the dog for him—enchiladas, chile rellenos, carne adovada, homemade tortillas and a big serving of flan for dessert. The cook had been with the Duff family for years, almost a second mother to Joshua and his four brothers. During each of his deployments, she faithfully e-mailed him once a week to let him know the menu of every meal he had missed. Exquisite torture.

After Magdalena’s home-cooked dinner, he would sleep well in his big, clean, nonsandy bed. Then the following day…

As always, Joshua’s thoughts came to a screeching halt at the idea of driving into town and stepping into the Duff-Flannigan Oil building. He could almost hear his boots squeaking down the long waxed hallway. His voice would echo as he greeted his father. The large corner office would still be waiting—as it had all these years.

Business. The oil business. That’s what we do, son. It’s a Duff thing. Your daddy did it. Your grandpas did it—both sides. And your great-grandpas. That’s why we sent you off to college to get that petroleum engineering degree. You’d be doing it right now if 9/11 hadn’t happened and made you want to serve your country. We’re proud that you did, but now it’s time to take your place here. Your big brother will be CEO one day. You’re our president of field operations. Duff-Flannigan Oil is counting on you.

Hadn’t Joshua just been fighting a war some said was based on a gluttonous thirst for foreign oil? Or had it been about terrorists and the need to quash insurgent cells? Was it about politics—or changing people’s lives for the better? Things could get confusing up in the high arid desert of Afghanistan.

There.

The object of Joshua’s latest quest pushed open the door of Refugee Hope and stepped out onto the sidewalk. At the sight of Ms. Liz Wallace, something slid right down his spine and settled into the base of his stomach. And this was why he should be headed for Texas.

Sam was right about his friend. Joshua had been too long without a woman. He needed to get home, find a couple of pretty gals, and…

What? He hardly knew how to go on an old-fashioned date anymore. Did people even do that these days?

He was thirty. Thirty and battle weary. And Liz Wallace looked so good he had almost dropped to his knees the moment he laid eyes on her.

Instead, he had bullied his way into her office and annoyed her to the point that she ran him off. Worse, he had hog-tied himself to the Rudi family. Not only did he feel obligated to help the dignified Reverend Stephen and his traumatized little wife, but Joshua was positively smitten with Charity and Virtue.

Sighing, he unlatched his door and pushed it open. Liz glanced his way. Her face…for an unguarded moment…said exactly what he needed to know. She had felt it, too. That something. A palpable pull. The irresistible beckoning toward what was probably a huge mistake.

“Liz.” He called her name as she approached on the sidewalk. “Thought you’d take me up on my offer to drive you to the airport. Get a little more information from you about how to manage my new best friends.”

She swallowed. Her brown eyes went depthless for a moment as she met his gaze. Then she focused on his car. “Too small. I’m bringing back a family of five. Thanks, but I always take the agency van to the airport.”

“Good. Where’s it parked?”

“Listen, I appreciate your interest in refugees, Sergeant.”

“Joshua.”

“I don’t need your help picking up this family, and I can’t take the time to explain our system to you right now. It’s very complicated. I have a lot on my mind.”

“I’ll drive while you think.” He imitated her frown. “You’re not going to use your favorite word again are you, Liz?”

Letting out a breath, she shrugged. “Oh, come on, then. But I’ll do the driving. Agency policy.”

“You sure? You look tired.”

“Thanks.”

“Beautiful but tired.”

At the expression of surprise on her face, Joshua mentally chastised himself. Bad form, Duff. You don’t tell a woman she’s beautiful right off the bat.

On the other hand, Liz Wallace was gorgeous. Slim and not too tall, she had the sort of understated figure he liked. Nothing demure about that hair, though. Big, glossy brown curls crowned her head, settled onto her shoulders and trickled down her back. Her skin was pale, almost milky. Those melted-chocolate eyes stirred something deep inside him. But it was her lips that drew his focus every time she spoke.

“We have twenty minutes to make it to the airport.” She pushed back her hair as they approached a mammoth white van sprinkled with rust spots. “When we get there, we’ll be going to the area where international flights arrive.”

“Been through those gates a few times myself.” He smiled as yet another look of surprise crossed Liz’s face.

“I’ve seen the Army grunts at Lambert,” she said. “In and out of Fort Leonard Wood for basic training. I didn’t think the Marine Corps used the airport.”

“You might be surprised at what Marines do.”

She opened the van’s door and with some effort clambered into the driver’s seat. Joshua had all he could do to keep from picking her up and depositing her in place. But he knew better than to manhandle Liz Wallace. She might be small and delicate, but the woman had a razor-sharp streak he didn’t want to mess around with.

“I’ve flown out of Lambert, too,” she said as Joshua settled into the passenger’s seat. Starting the engine, she added, “I left the international area on my way to the DRC.”

At that, she glanced his way. The slightest smirk tilted those sumptuous lips. Clearly this was a test she hoped he would fail. A little global one-upmanship.

He fastened his seat belt and tried to relax. It wasn’t easy. Liz had on a khaki skirt that had seemed more than modest in the agency building. But in the van, it formed to the curve of her hip and revealed just enough leg to mesmerize him. He slipped his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.

Concentrate on the conversation, Duff.

“So, did you land in Kinshasa?” he asked. “Or maybe you were headed for the eastern part of the country. A lot of people fly into Kampala and travel across the border from there, don’t they?”

She laughed easily. “Okay, you’ve been around. My group landed in Kinshasa. Have you ever visited Congo?”

“You mean the DRC?” He returned her smirk. “Nah. North Africa mostly. How’d you like it?”

“Interesting. It changed me. I’m planning to spend the rest of my life working with refugees in Africa.”

“Africa?” He frowned at the thought of settlements plagued with disease, hunger, violence. “You’re doing a good thing right here, Liz.”

“The people who make it to St. Louis are the lucky ones. All I do is mop up. Try to repair what’s already been broken. I’d prefer to go into the UN camps where I can really make a difference.”

“You’re making a difference now.”

The brown eyes slid his way for an instant. “How do you know?”

“I saw what you do.”

“Not what I want to do. My job is too much about lists and quotas. It’s all red tape and documents and files.”

“It’s people.”

“It was once. In the beginning, I thought I was really helping. But there are so many people, and the needs are overwhelming. I don’t speak anyone’s language well enough to communicate the important things I want to say.”

“What is it you want to say?”

Again she glanced at him. “Were you an interrogator?”

“Tracker.” That left out a lot, but he didn’t want to drag his military service into the open. “I did a little interviewing.”

She nodded, her attention on the traffic again. “What I want to say is…meaningful things. But I can’t. My Swahili is horrible. I’m doing well to meet my refugees’ basic needs. I don’t have time to follow through with schools to make sure the kids are adjusting. I can’t teach the mothers how to provide good nutrition. Most don’t know the simplest things about life here.”

“Like what?”

“That eggs and milk go in the refrigerator. How to use hangers in a closet. Where to put a lamp. How to microwave popcorn or make brownies from a mix. What to do with credit card offers that pour in through the mail. A lot of them don’t realize children need to wear shoes in America. Especially in the winter. But it goes beyond that.”

Joshua held his breath as she swung the van into four-lane traffic. Interstate 70 at midmorning was a free-flowing river of passenger cars and 18-wheelers. The van nestled in behind a semi, then darted out to take a spot vacated by a cab. Liz drove as he did, fearlessly. Maybe recklessly.

“I don’t know the subtext,” she was saying. “So many people groups come through Refugee Hope, and I’ve only learned a few things. Each culture is different. If I were to ask about your family in Texas, you’d give me the names of your closest relatives, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course you would. But a Somali would recite twenty generations back to the name of his clan father. In Somalia, men and women don’t touch each other in greeting. Elders—even total strangers—are addressed as aunt or uncle. And babies aren’t diapered. Now, that’s been interesting in St. Louis.”

“I’ll bet.”

“The Burmese—people from Myanmar—have complicated customs that involve naming a baby by the day of the week he’s born on, and his age and gender. And the name changes according to who’s talking to them. In Somalia, it’s polite to give gifts to a mother before her baby is born, like in the U. S. But you’d never do that in Burma. It would bring misfortune on the child. And you don’t give scissors or knives or anything black—to anyone. Trust and honesty are important to the Burmese. Inconsistency and vagueness are considered good manners in Somalia. It’s a positive thing to be crafty, even sly and devious.”

“The tip of the cultural iceberg.”

“A society’s rules are subtle. You were where? Afghanistan? I’m sure you learned their ways.”

“Oh, yeah.” He leaned back in the seat and verbally checked off some of the idiosyncrasies he’d been taught. “The people may seem to be standing too close, but don’t step back. It’s their way. Men walk arm in arm or hold hands—it means they’re friends and nothing more. Never point with one finger. Greet male friends with a handshake and a pat on the back. Belch in appreciation of a good meal. Never drink alcohol or eat pork in front of an Afghan. Don’t wink, blow your nose in public, eat with your left hand or sit with the soles of your feet showing.”

“Well done, Sergeant Duff,” she said. “Then you know that until you begin to understand people, you can’t help them much.”

“And you’re all about helping.”

She pulled the van into a space in the short-term parking area at Lambert. “So are you, Sergeant. We’ve just chosen different ways to go about it.”

Before he could unbuckle his seat belt, Liz hopped out of the van and started for the terminal. Joshua had never considered tracking insurgents a mercy mission. He was a huntsman. A sniper. A warrior who set out on a mission and didn’t stop until he’d accomplished it.

Watching Liz stride purposefully through the sliding-glass door, Joshua realized she might be right about him. Maybe they had more in common than he knew.

Chapter Three

L iz sat at her desk, staring. The stack of files blurred as her eyes lost focus. The sounds of people talking in cubicles nearby faded. Unnoticed, the hand on the clock ticked toward five. Even the candy bar in her desk drawer ceased its demand, its chocolate-caramel siren song ebbing.

“Wakey-wakey, Sleeping Beauty!” Molly breezed into the cubicle. “Time for your happy news report from the Fairy Godmother.”

Settling on the edge of a chair, her favorite perch, the reed-thin woman waved a sheaf of stapled pages. Molly’s exuberance and generally cheerful outlook belied the fact that she had battled an eating disorder most of her adult life. Only Liz knew, and the two made it a matter of prayer each evening before they left the office.

“More trouble in Africa,” Molly began, reading from their weekly headquarters update. “Sudanese refugees are still flooding south. Tribal tension continues to flare in Eastern and Central Africa. The Kenyan camps are full to overflowing. Really? Surprise me some more. Congo and Burundi are still unstable. Rwanda isn’t much better. And on to Asia! Hostility has increased toward the Karen people group in Burma/Myanmar. Refugees are heading for Thailand in record numbers. People are still fleeing Vietnam and North Korea. Yeah—when they can get out. Europe is pretty quiet, but the Middle East is tumultuous. This could’ve been last week’s report.”

Liz had closed her eyes and was trying to pull out any important information between Molly’s running commentary. Sarcasm bordering on outright derision was the woman’s stock in trade.

“Now for our weekly federal government refugee resettlement averages,” Molly continued. “Currently in St. Louis there are 2,500 Somalis, more than 1,000 Ethiopians, 700 from ex-Soviet states, 700 Liberians, 500 Sudanese, 300 each from Bosnia, Vietnam, Iran and Afghanistan. The Turks and Burmese are passing the 100 mark, and Ivory Coast, Sierra Leone, Burundi and Eritrea are catching up fast.”

“Just give me next week’s airport list, Molly.” Liz held out a hand. “I can’t process this stuff right now.”

“What’s going on? Have you been staying awake all night again—plotting your own refugee flight into darkest Africa?”

“No, it’s not that. I’ve had a hard day.”

“The Marine.”

Liz looked up. “You remember him?”

“Who could forget? Every woman in the building—married and single—watched you drive off with the guy this morning, Liz. I’d have been in here sooner but I had to pick up some sardines and Spam to welcome my latest batch of Burmese.”

They laughed together at these favorite foods of the silent, polite and terribly modest people group. It was hard to know what would strike the fancy of a given batch of refugees. A few local stores had started carrying live bullfrogs and eels, packaged duck heads and various other items too pungent even for Liz—who considered herself brave compared to many in the agency.

Molly set her elbows on Liz’s desk and rested her chin on her palms. “What’s his name, where’s he from and how long do you get to keep him?”

“I don’t want him.” Liz let out a low growl. “Men like that should not exist. They complicate everything.”

“But they’re oh, so nice to look at.”

“I can’t argue there. You could drown in his eyes. Seriously, though, this guy is a pain. Very demanding. When he’s not chasing insurgents in Afghanistan, he lives in Texas. He’s visiting a friend here, and somehow he got tangled up with a family of Pagandans.”

“Ooh. Paganda is not a nice place.”

“No, and Joshua’s people have been through the wringer. Global Care brought them in from Kenya, but they’re on their own now. Except for Sergeant Duff, USMC. Their story won him over. The two children hid inside a metal drum while rebels massacred their mother and siblings. Their house burned down around them, but they survived.”

“Wow.” Molly fell silent—for once.

“Joshua met these people last night, and now he’s determined to help them through the entire resettlement process. I told him that was crazy. It’s too complicated and time-consuming for one person, but he wouldn’t budge.”

“Is he aware of the cost? Without an agency supporting the family, that could get expensive.”

Liz paused, weighing whether to tell Molly what she had learned about Joshua’s family. Finally, she spoke. “Okay, the guy is filthy rich.”

“Mmm. Even better. Let’s see. Joshua is rich. Joshua is handsome. Joshua is tenderhearted toward the poor and needy. What’s not to like about Joshua?”

“He doesn’t take no for an answer, he’s domineering, he’s forceful, he’s way too self-assured and…and…” Liz clenched her fists. “I don’t want to like him, Molly!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m going to Africa. As soon as I become fluent in Swahili and get enough experience for the UN to want to hire me, I’m out of here. I don’t have time for complications. I can’t let myself think about Joshua Duff, and I hope I never see him again.”

Liz shook her head. “No, that’s not true. I can’t think about anything else, and it’s driving me nuts. You know what I went through with Taylor. It took me forever to figure out how wrong we were.”

“I could have told you in two seconds.”

“And you did.”

“Liz, you need a man with backbone. Taylor was idealistic and friendly and good-hearted, but what a pancake. Flat. Boring. Wimpy. Pass the syrup.”

“Molly, please. He wasn’t that bad.”

“Have I been married twice, Liz? Do I know the good ones from the bums?”

“Apparently not. Case in point—Joel.”

Molly stood. “Yes, but I’m not marrying Joel. He’s a friend.”

“You’re sleeping with your friend, Molly. That’s a dumb thing to do. Have I told you that before?”

“Two thousand times. It’s in my DNA to do dumb things with men.”

Liz stood and picked up her purse. “Molly, please stop living this way. You don’t need Joel. You don’t need men who are bad for you. Why do you do that to yourself?”

“For the same reason you dated Taylor. He was there, you were lonely and it felt good at the time.”

“I didn’t sleep with Taylor. When I figured out he wasn’t right for me, I got out pretty easily. You’re tangled up all over again, Molly.”

“And you can’t stop thinking about Sergeant Joshua Duff. We’re the same.” She tossed the refugee update on Liz’s desk. “Let’s hurry up and pray, because I need to get some time on my treadmill before Joel comes over.”

“All right, all right. I’ll start.”

The women had been friends for a couple of years. Liz had talked Molly into going to church not long after they’d met at the refugee agency. Now they prayed together at the end of every workday.

But Molly’s life didn’t change. She kept plunging from one mistake into another. As Liz took her friend’s hands and bowed her head, she had to wonder how different they really were.

“Gangs.” Sam Hawke tossed Joshua a white T-shirt from a stack on the desk in the front office. “Get used to it. This is the Haven uniform. We don’t allow gang colors in here.”

Joshua unfolded the cheap cotton garment. He had spent most of the afternoon under an oak tree in Forest Park, using his laptop to search out jobs and apartments for the Rudi family. It was high time to complete this assignment and move on to the next, he had decided.

The Marines had kept Joshua busy and in the thick of action for nearly a decade. Reflection and contemplation didn’t sit well with him—especially when his own thoughts were so troubling. The pitiful condition of the Somali family he and Liz Wallace had met at the airport disturbed him. Liz disturbed him more.

But Sam’s mention of gang activity piqued his interest. Maybe his military skills could be useful in St. Louis.

“Which gangs are causing you problems?” he asked, recalling the two he knew. “Crips and Bloods?”

“Around here, Crips are usually called Locs. Bloods are Dogs. We’ve got Murder Mob, Sets, Your Hood, Homies, Peoples, Cousins, Kinfolks, Dogs. Girls’ gangs are called Sole Survivers and Hood Rats. The Disciples and the 51 MOB are unique to St. Louis. Hispanics have ’em, too—mainly the Latin Kings, but Florencia 13 is making inroads.”

Joshua frowned. The St. Louis gangs sounded as complex as the factions he had encountered in Afghanistan and Iraq. Those sects had been founded on religious differences, but their current enmity went far beyond matters of faith.

“What’s the gangs’ focus?” he asked. “Territory? Violence?”

“Those are part of it. Arms and drugs play a big role. Just like everywhere, gangbangers worship the idols of the modern world—money, power and sex.”

Sam leaned against the edge of Terell’s old steel desk and studied the youngsters playing basketball on the large court just beyond the office window. “Our black gangs deal in crack and powder cocaine, marijuana, black tar heroin, powder heroin and heroin capsules. The Hispanics used to handle mostly commercial-grade marijuana. When Missouri clamped down on local methamphetamine producers, Mexican ice exploded. We’re doing all we can to keep tabs on what’s moving through the city.”

“Who’s we? ”

“Haven. But there are others.” He held up a hand and began ticking off the groups. “The St. Louis County Gang Task Force. The Metropolitan Police Department Gang/Drug Division’s gang unit. GREAT, the Gang Resistance Education and Training program set up by the mayor, works in elementary and middle schools. REJIS is an agency that notifies parents of a child’s gang affiliation. Cease Fire is a coalition of law enforcement, school and government officials, clergy and crime prevention specialists. We’ve got citizens’ groups, too—INTERACT, African-American Churches in Dialogue, the St. Louis Gang Outreach Program, you name it. But no one’s winning this war.”

Leaning one shoulder against a post, Joshua unfolded the T-shirt. “African-Americans, Latinos—sounds like the gangs run along racial lines.”

“Typically. A new gang showed up this summer, though. Hypes. They’re unusual—racially mixed.”

“So what binds them?”

“As near as we can figure, it’s their leader. Fellow goes by the name Mo Ded.”

“Sounds more like the definition of a cult to me—a group focused around a single charismatic person.”

“Maybe, but they operate like a gang. Nothing religious about them. We’re guessing Mo Ded is a newcomer to St. Louis. He was smart enough to pull together all the ‘losers’—the gang rejects. You don’t find anyone more loyal than the disenfranchised.”

“Exactly how cults get started.”

“Cult, gang, whatever. Mo Ded has been recruiting, organizing and training people all summer, carving out his turf and building his weapons cache.”

“What race is this guy?”

Sam shrugged. “Anyone’s guess. He’s not black or white. But he’s not Hispanic, either. Some say he’s got Oriental eyes, but I hear they’re a weird green color. Definitely not Asian.”

“You haven’t met him?” Joshua’s recon experience had fine-tuned his ability to sniff out bad guys, and he knew Sam had similar training. “Don’t you want to know who’s sharing your territory?”

“Nobody shares turf, Duff. This block, including our building, belonged to the 51 MOB. Terell and I knew that when we bought it. We had to push them out and set up defenses.”

“Like when we took streets in Baghdad or Mosul.”

“This is war, man. Same thing—only without the manpower or arms on our side. Haven has a dog, a metal detector and Raydell and his crew to guard the door.”

“You sure Raydell is clean?”

“When I first met the kid, he had a baby Uzi tucked in his pants and a juvie record that would have put an older man inside the walls—exactly where Raydell’s father is right now. But our boy is working on his GED and planning to join the police force.”

“Big change.”

“One of Haven’s few success stories. If a kid wants to spend time here, he’s got to pull up his britches, leave his do-rag and grill at home, cover his gang tattoos, go through the metal detector and let Duke give him a sniff. The police keep a close watch on our place. We even have a few snitches. Terell and I realized we could let Haven become a staging area—a place where gangs congregate for retaliation and violence. Or we could essentially become gang leaders ourselves and make Haven our turf.”

“Haven’s homeboys. Does your woman know about this?”

“Ana knows and worries. But I remind her I’ve got unseen forces on my side. You may have noticed that sign in my office—If God is for us, who can be against us? God is really the leader of Haven. No one stronger than Him. The gangs know our focus on faith, and that helps some. But they’ve learned we’ll do whatever it takes to protect our kids. We had to earn their respect, and we did.”

Joshua was impressed. On first sight, the old building didn’t look like much. Now he understood it was hard-won property.

“How about the 51 MOB?” he asked as he stripped off the shirt he had worn all day. “Did they ever surrender Haven?”

“Yeah, but it took a while. Haven used to get marked with graffiti all the time. I would paint over it, knowing that targeted me for death. You don’t strip gang signs without getting killed. They’d spray my name on a wall and X it out. Essentially, that meant I was dead. They came after me a few times, but we worked it out.”

“What about Terell?”

“He’s an ex-offender. That gives him a lot of street cred. They know he can take care of himself. He uses his past to relate to the kids, but he doesn’t want to get mixed up in the gang thing. I’ve got the military training, so I mostly handle it.”

“Do the Hypes respect you, too?”

“Mo Ded doesn’t give a rip about anyone. He’s had his people loitering right outside Haven, inviting some of my best boys to jump off the porch.”

“Join up?”

“That’s right. Most gangs require a kid to join by beating in—walking between two lines or standing inside a circle of gang members who beat him to a pulp. But to get into the Hypes, you have to go on a mission.”

“Military term.”

“Worse. Mo Ded’s favorite technique—he makes a boy put a blue rag on his head, dress all in blue and walk through a Blood neighborhood. Or wear red and walk through Crips turf. If the kid survives, he’s a Hype.”

“What age are we talking about?” Joshua asked.

“Around here, any boy over twelve either owns or shares a gun. Mo Ded starts them out at eleven.”

Joshua shook his head as he unfolded the white T-shirt Sam had given him. “Reminds me of child soldiers in Africa. Sudan and Rwanda.”

“Don’t forget Paganda. As bad as he’s had it, Pastor Stephen thanks God his sons weren’t forced to fight for the rebels.”

“The ones who were killed?”

“They end up dead either way. At least with a massacre, the suffering is short. In these African countries or in the kind of war you and I fought against terrorists, the only way to win is to eliminate the enemy. That or be eliminated yourself. You know what I’m saying, Duff. There’s no middle ground. It’s the same here in St. Louis. According to gang code, the only way to get rid of another gang is to kill all the members.”

“That’s genocide.”

“Welcome to my world.”

Joshua let out a breath. “Hatred. It’s a grown man’s game. Why are these gangs recruiting kids so young?”

“Same reason al-Qaeda straps explosives to children and sends them into marketplaces on suicide missions. Talk to your new friend at the refugee agency about child soldiers in Africa.”

Uncomfortable at the mention of the woman, Joshua began putting on the T-shirt. He tried to work his arms through the sleeves. “Do you know Liz?”

“Pastor Stephen told me about your encounter at Refugee Hope. He and I had a long talk this afternoon. Stephen Rudi may be Pagandan, but he understands St. Louis.”

“Yo, Hawke. This shirt’s too small.”

“One size fits all.” Sam studied his friend for a moment. “Still got the six-pack abs, I see. I’d better not let you get too close to Ana.”

“When am I going to meet this fiancée of yours, anyway?” Joshua said, wincing at the tight fit around his shoulders. He rolled the shirt down over his chest, but he knew the thing would never stay tucked into his jeans. Slouch time for the ol’ Marine sergeant. He would have to get used to it.

“She’ll be around,” Sam told him. “Ana teaches a creative writing class on Saturdays, but I’ve stopped encouraging her to come over here much. Too dangerous. I go to her place if we want time alone. We cook dinner, watch a little TV. It’s a nice break from the smell of sweat socks and dirty sneakers.”

“What about Terell? Does he have a woman?”

“His church hired a new youth director last month—lovely lady named Joette. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s got a former NBA star in her future. And you? Anyone out there in the battle zone catch your attention?”

“Plenty. But you know me. Careful.” He decided it was time to change the subject. “Let’s go catch some of the action.”

Sam indicated the door, and the two men stepped out of the office. The basketball court swarmed with players. Whistles blew, the buttery aroma of popcorn drifted in the air, kids shouted. A toddler wandered out of one of the small classrooms. Smeared with blue paint, he looked around, lost. His face wrinkled into the start of a wail. Just then, a teenage girl sailed out of the room, snagged the child with one long arm and hauled him back to safety.

Too many kiddos, Joshua realized. This place could make a real impact, but not without more space. Sam had mentioned an idea to turn the parking lot outside into a basketball court and playground. Good plan if the gangs would leave them alone.

“No girlfriend?” Sam wasn’t going to let it drop. “Come on, Duff. You’re not getting any younger. Doesn’t daddy want his boy back in Amarillo pumping oil and raising heirs?”

“He’d like nothing better than to see me build a house right down the road, get married and do the whole Duff-Flannigan Oil thing just like my big brother. No doubt the younger Duff boys will fall in line. I’ve been the black sheep.”

“The lone ranger.” Sam clapped Joshua on the shoulder. “Well, you’ve got your hands full right now. Those Pagandans are quite a bunch. I like Stephen Rudi. You won’t believe what he wants to do in St. Louis.”

Joshua glanced at his friend. He hadn’t had time to look in on the family since returning from his trip to the airport with Liz. Her wariness about his undertaking had put him on guard.

“Reverend Rudi had better be happy to work for minimum wage,” he told Sam. “That’s all I can find for him around here. The wife doesn’t speak a word—English or anything else—that I can see. She’s a walking shell. No telling what the woman went through before they got together. The little girl will have to go to school. Maybe the boy, too. What did Stephen tell you?”

“He wants to start a church.”

Joshua scowled. “No way.”

“He’s dead serious. He believes God spared the family from genocide, brought them to the States and plans to use them to further the Kingdom right here in St. Louis. The man practically had Terell and me on our knees this afternoon right in the middle of a basketball game. He’s pretty magnetic.”

“Magnetism won’t pay bills.” Joshua studied the busy room. “Listen, Sam, I want to get the family hooked into the system here as fast as I can. I admire what you’re doing at Haven, but it’s not for me. I need to get on with my life. Got any idea how I can plug Pastor Stephen into a job?”

“We can find him work, but what about you, Duff? You don’t want to sit behind a desk and count money for the rest of your life.”

“Nothing wrong with money as long as it’s used right. I don’t know about that desk, though. You know me—I’m a hands-on man. I like getting down and gritty with people, working to change lives.”

“Sounds like what we do at Haven. Why are you on the run?”

“Not sure. I have a few things to figure out.” Joshua ran a finger around the neck of the T-shirt. “I’m no social worker, that’s for sure.”

“You’re not Recon anymore, either. I doubt you’ll bust up any al-Qaeda cells in Amarillo. Why not stick around here? We’ve got Mo Ded and his brand of terrorists right outside these doors to keep things interesting. There’s a lot more to Haven than social work, and we could use another man the kids can look up to. I’m starting to think we need a liaison with the refugee community, too. Maybe that could be you.”

“Nah. The social worker at Refugee Hope showed me the error of my well-meaning ways. The things that go into resettling these people—it’s more than one guy can do.”

“Come on, Duff. I know you too well. You’d take on a challenge like that any day.” Sam assessed his friend. “What’s up with you? You’ve done a one-eighty since this morning.”

Joshua focused on a group of youngsters carrying stacks of freshly laundered and folded white T-shirts toward the office. The last thing he wanted to admit was the way Liz had affected him. Five minutes, and she’d had him in overdrive. Not just her looks, either. They had clicked big-time. She knew it, too.

But it wouldn’t work. She was headed to Africa. He was expected in Texas.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he said finally. “This place is messing with my mind.”

“It’s not St. Louis. The war did a number on your brain. If you’re like me, you’ve still got one foot in the sand.”

Joshua recalled his nightmare. “I need to take care of the Rudis and move on.”

“You can’t escape it, man. What else is bothering you?”

“Want the truth?” He chuckled. “ Women —the only way I can think to get my head out of combat mode.”

“Ana’s got friends. Or how about that caseworker? Pastor Stephen said you looked at her like you planned to marry her.”

“ Marry her? Are you kidding me?”

“Like I said, the man is…insightful. Intense might be a better word. So what’s the lady’s name?”

“Liz Wallace. Gorgeous but on her way to some UN job in Africa. All day I’ve either been avoiding imaginary land mines or trying to figure out how to get that woman into my arms. Neither one good. I need to focus on the Rudis—find that missing brother, get Pastor Stephen a job, enroll the kids in school, locate an apartment and get them set up. All without letting myself get tangled in a pretty missionary’s curls.”

“Now there’s an assignment worthy of the Sergeant Duff I met on a dusty base in Iraq.”

“I’d rather hunt terrorists.”

As Sam laughed, Joshua decided it was time to cut the chitchat. He needed to find the little minister and his wife. Sam beat him to the punch.

“Pastor Stephen is in one of the classrooms. Said he wanted to start teaching Bible stories to the children. He’s that way.”

Joshua set off in the direction Sam had indicated. He definitely did not want to marry Liz Wallace—or any other woman. Not soon, anyway. He’d have to set the Rev. Stephen Rudi straight on that point. As well as a few others.

Chapter Four

L iz pulled her car to a stop in front of Haven and gathered up the stack of documents in the passenger seat. A shiver prickled down her spine as she focused on the young man slouched against the wall at the building’s entrance. Compact, taut with gleaming dark muscles, he wore a white T-shirt, baggy jeans and an expression that dared anyone to mess with him.

The task could have been saved for another time, Liz realized, and maybe she should have waited. The streets were dangerous at this hour. Her headache had worsened throughout the day. With her patience stretched to the limit, all she wanted to do was curl up in her bed and sleep.

Please, Lord, let me sleep!

Why did He choose to answer this prayer so rarely? Liz shook her head as she pushed open the car door. Insomnia had become her demon, haunting her days and lying in wait to sabotage her nights. She ached for sleep yet dreaded the moment she would switch off her lamp each night. Her bed had become her worst enemy.

“Good evening.” The young man’s polite greeting surprised Liz so much she stopped walking. He straightened and stepped toward her. “Welcome to Haven, ma’am. I’m Raydell Watson, on door duty here. You’ll want to give me those papers, your purse and anything that might set off our metal detector.”

Belatedly, Liz noted the electronic apparatus just inside the door. Beyond it she spotted a dog. A large German shepherd, ears perked forward, tail raised.

“That’s Duke,” Raydell told her. “He’s our drug canine. He won’t do nothing to you—unless you’re carrying.”

“No. Of course not.” Liz handed over the sheaf of paperwork. “You know, maybe you could just deliver these for me. They go to a man named Joshua Duff. I really don’t need to talk to him.”

“You’ll want to go on in. We like for every visitor to take a look at our place.” Raydell smiled, and now Liz noted the single gold tooth. “We’re real proud of Haven. Just sign our register on my clipboard here.” He glanced at her signature. “Thanks, Ms. Wallace. Now hand over your purse, and I’ll let you through the door.”

With some reluctance, Liz gave the young man her bag. “I work for Refugee Hope.” She felt an odd need to explain. “Sergeant Duff is helping a Pagandan family with the resettlement process.”

“Right through this door,” Raydell said. He bellowed over her, “Visitor, Shauntay!”

As Liz stepped through the metal detector, she saw a young woman motion to the German shepherd. Wearing a white T-shirt and tight-fitting tan slacks, Shauntay gave Raydell a knowing smile as she took the registry. Then she picked up the dog’s leash and led him toward Liz.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Wallace. Duke don’t bite unless we give the command.” She walked the dog around Liz as she spoke. Satisfied, she handed back the purse. “You lookin’ for Uncle Sam or T-Rex?”

Liz frowned. Who were Uncle Sam and T-Rex?

“Actually,” she said, “I need to talk to Joshua Duff. I understand he’s staying at Haven.”

“That big dude? Over there shootin’ hoops.” Shauntay gestured with her chin. “He come in yesterday. Friend of Uncle Sam. They was soldiers together over in Iraq. He movin’ in here.”

“To Haven? No, I’m sure he plans to go home to Texas soon. He told me so this morning.”

“Texas? What he gonna do there?”

“Oil, I think.” Liz took a moment to study the young woman at her side. Tall and slender with a long graceful neck, Shauntay had the gentle beauty of a gazelle. Her almond eyes were dark brown and framed with long lashes. She could be a model on a magazine cover.

“Oil like what you fry chicken with? Or oil like you put in a car engine? Or hair oil?”

“The kind they make into gasoline. I believe Sergeant Duff’s family is in the oil drilling business.” Liz smiled. “What about you, Shauntay? What do you plan to do with your life?”

“Me?” She touched her chest as if the question surprised her. “I always wanted to have a hair place and do braids and weaves and twists and locs, you know? But I got two babies already, and I ain’t even finished school yet. T-Rex say I could have a hair place if I want to. If I try hard and get my GED and all that.”

“T-Rex?”

“Terell. The man. Him—over there with all the kids crawling on him.” Shauntay laughed. “T-Rex. He funny, you know? We like him. He make us believe, because we see how he done his life—comin’ up out of the hood and into the NBA, gettin’ rich, then losin’ everything to bein’ a pipe head. And then he come here to help us do better. Him and Uncle Sam. I think that big guy gonna stick around, too. He done fightin’ in Iraq, and he good friends with Uncle Sam. You seen his tats? Dog. ”

“Tats?”

Shauntay pointed out the tattoos that marked her arms and knuckles. “I used to be a 51 MOB queen, you know. A Hood Rat. They had me slangin’ keys and runnin’ from the 5-0 and everything else. The homeboys used to jump on us queens. They said we couldn’t get out once we was in. They’d kill us. But I got out and got both my babies out, too. Now I spend my time at Haven. I worked my way up through KP and laundry all the way to Duke duty. One of these days, I really might get my GED and start me a hair place.”

Liz tried to assimilate the information. Shauntay used a slang she didn’t know and spoke English with an accent almost as unfamiliar as that of the refugees who passed through her cubicle every day. Though she had merely stepped from a St. Louis street into a St. Louis building, Liz felt much as she had the first day she got off an airplane in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Haven was another country. Another world.

“I’m glad you spend your time here,” Liz told Shauntay. “You’re a beautiful young lady. I hope you do get your degree and start your own business. I’d be your first customer.”

“You?” At this, Shauntay laughed so hard that Liz began to wish she hadn’t said anything. Even Duke appeared unnerved as he paced back and forth on his leash. Shauntay shook her head. “Lady, you white! ”

“So? I have hair, don’t I?”

“You got hair, but…” The young woman took a step closer. “Lemme see you.”

Liz tilted her head to one side. Shauntay gently dipped her fingertips into the mass of loose brown curls. For a moment, she murmured unintelligible comments, as if assessing something completely foreign. Then she made a sound like a cat purring.

“Yo, Ms. Wallace, I bet I could do you a goddess braid.” The pronouncement was definitive. “I got two or three ideas in mind already.”

Liz felt strangely happy. She took Shauntay’s hand. “Deal. But not tonight. I have to give these papers to the sergeant over there and head home. I’m exhausted.”

“When you gonna come back?”

“Come back…” The implications of her offer sank in. “Later. Maybe this weekend.”

“Okay, Saturday. What time?”

Liz glanced across the room and noted that Joshua Duff had stopped shooting baskets. He was staring at her.

“I’m not sure about Saturday,” she said. “I’ll need to check my calendar.”

“You got it in your bag?”

“Um…” Now he was walking toward her. “Listen, Shauntay, I’ll be back soon. I promise. Would you give these papers to Sergeant Duff? I need to get going.”

“You ain’t comin’ back. I met people like you before. Make promises and don’t do nothin’.”

“No, I will be back.” Liz focused on the young woman’s mahogany eyes. “All right, Saturday. Two o’clock. You can do a braid for me.”

She made an attempt to pass off the paperwork. Shauntay shrugged one shoulder and turned away. “We’ll see. C’mon, Duke. Let’s go talk to Raydell. Probably some Hypes out there on the street tryin’ to move in on our set.”

“Wait. Please.” Liz wrapped her arms around the sheaf of documents as she watched Shauntay saunter away and Joshua Duff approach. This had been a mistake. She would get it over with as quickly as possible.

“Liz Wallace.” His damp white T-shirt clung to his chest. Through the thin fabric, the tattoos were visible, marking his biceps. She dragged her focus to his face. White-flecked navy-blue eyes pinned her. “You’re here.”

“As you see.” She made an effort to copy Shauntay’s gesture of indifference. “I thought I’d drop off a copy of my agency’s handbook and some of the other information I mentioned on the way to the airport this morning. Lists of supplies your family will need. Community resources. Government assistance programs. Here you go.” She held out the documents.

He stood motionless. “Why did you come?”

“The paperwork.” Again, she pushed it at him.

“But I didn’t intend to see you again.”

“You didn’t?” His statement confused her. “You’re still planning to resettle the refugee family from Paganda, aren’t you?”

He appeared perplexed for a moment. Then he nodded. “Oh, yeah. I worked on it this afternoon.”

“These will help you.”

This time he took the paperwork. “You caught me off guard. I’ve been shooting hoops.”

She tried not to look at his chest. “Yes. Well, I hope you’re having fun. This is a nice place for the kids. Your friend has done a good job.”

“Do you want to meet Sam?”

“No. I mean, I just swung by to drop off the copies. I’m on my way home. Please greet the Rudi family for me.”

Before he could respond, she turned toward the door.

“Hang on.” He caught her arm, pulled her closer. “Liz, wait.”

“Really, I have to go. I’m tired.”

“Let me introduce you to Sam and Terell.” His hand cupping her elbow, he maneuvered her onto the basketball court. “Sam agreed to help me find Pastor Stephen a job. The guy wants to start a church, but—”

“He does?” Joy washed through her. “We desperately need local churches for the refugees. Pastor Stephen speaks Swahili, right? It’s a common language in eastern Paganda, and many of our people pick it up while they’re living in refugee camps in Kenya or Tanzania. I’ve been hoping to start a Bible study for Swahili speakers at my apartment.”

“You know Swahili?”

“Not well. I learned a little while I was in the DRC, and I’ve been taking classes at the community center. It’s part of my preparation for the UN job.”

He stopped walking. “Africa. You’re going to Africa.”

“Lord willing.”

For a moment, they looked at each other. Liz sensed the activity around them, kids running by, balls bouncing, a child crying, whistles blowing. But all she saw was the desire in Joshua Duff’s eyes. Desire for her.

He wanted her.

She felt his hunger wrap around her chest and tighten her heart. Her own response caught in her throat, taking her breath away. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“Who’s this?”

A deep voice broke the invisible shell that had surrounded them. Liz glanced up to see the towering T-Rex, the impression of height increased by a golden-haired child perched on his shoulders.

“You got a lady friend, Duff? Why didn’t you tell us she was coming over? Welcome to Haven.” He stuck out a large hand. “I’m Terell Roberts. This is Brandy, up here. She’s my sidekick.”

Liz shook Terell’s hand and focused on the child. The angelic illusion of pink cheeks and blond curls faded beneath the reality of the little girl’s runny nose, matted hair and grimy face.

“Hi, Brandy. My name is Liz Wallace.” She returned to Terell. “And you must be T-Rex. Shauntay pointed you out. I work for Refugee Hope.”

“Liz Wallace—you’re the lady who…” His eyes darted to Joshua for an instant and then back, looking her up and down. “I heard about you. Yeah, you live up to your billing.”

At that, Joshua sobered. “Terell, can you introduce Liz to Sam? I remembered something I need to tell Pastor Stephen. Thanks for the paperwork, Liz. I’ll put this to good use.”

Before she could reply, he strode away, leaving her alone with Terell and Brandy.

“Sergeant Duff and I don’t get along, you see,” she said. “We got off to a bad start this morning at Refugee Hope. The Rudi family came to the States through a different agency, and I didn’t feel I could help them. So we had a bit of conflict.”

“You did?” Terell studied Joshua, who was going into one of the small rooms that lined one side of the basketball court.

“That’s not what Duff told Sam and me at supper. The way I hear it, you’re the prettiest thing he’s laid eyes on in years. Said you’re making him crazy.”

Liz knotted her fingers together. “I’m sure he meant crazy in a negative way. Anyway, it’s been nice to meet you—and you, too, Brandy.”

The little girl waved down from her perch. “Bye-bye!”

“Hold on now—you need to meet Sam,” Terell said. “We’ve got refugees starting to come to Haven, and we need help figuring out how to handle them. Nobody on staff speaks Spanish or Swahili or any of that, and some of those kids talk like lightning in the strangest gobbledygook I’ve ever heard. Sam’s in the office. C’mon, Liz. Follow me.”

Despite her urgency to get away, Liz could do nothing but accompany Terell to the youth center’s office with its long windows overlooking the main room. A striking man wearing Haven’s requisite white T-shirt rose from behind a desk as they entered.

“Sam, meet Liz Wallace. Duff’s lady.” Terell lifted Brandy off his shoulders and set her on the floor. “Liz, this is Sam Hawke. We run Haven.”

“Us and a slew of volunteers. So you’re the woman.” Sam smiled in a way that made Liz even more uncomfortable. “Duff was right.”

“That’s what I told her,” Terell confirmed.

“I’m glad you’re filling our resident Marine sergeant in on the refugee situation,” Sam continued. “We hope he’ll stick around and help us out. The refugees are starting to trickle in here, and I have a feeling we’re going to be inundated before long.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Several resettlement agencies have contracts with apartment managers in this area. Refugee Hope placed families from Burundi and Congo right around the corner. We’re negotiating with a manager to place some incoming Somali immigrants in a building down the street. Terell mentioned that Reverend Rudi is interested in planting a church in the area. I hope you’ll encourage that.”

“A church where they talk Swahili. ” Terell enunciated the word.

Liz smiled. “Refugee Hope has learned that children from our African families assimilate to city street culture very quickly. It’s a way of coping that often leads them into gangs—and then into a lot of trouble. As a faith-based agency, we do all we can to help our immigrants build a stable lifestyle. Any intervention you could provide at Haven would be great.”

“Your visit here tonight can’t be an accident, Liz.” Sam crossed his arms. “The Rudi family must be the tip of an iceberg we’ve just begun to notice. If families are moving into the area at the rate you’re describing, we need to let Haven’s board of directors know about it and put some strategies in place.”

“You have a board?”

The corporate sound of the word contrasted with the pile of dirty white T-shirts in one corner of the room and the row of ancient computers on a long table near the desk. Broken trophies littered a shelf. A large metal barrel labeled Lost & Found overflowed with jackets, caps, mittens and flip-flops.

“Thanks to the legal help of one of our sponsors, Haven went nonprofit a few weeks ago,” Sam explained. “We’re all set up now. We have a grant writer, too.”

“We’re a 501 (c)(3) charitable organization,” Terell clarified. “You can get grants even if you’re faith-based, which we are.”

“Sounds like Haven and Refugee Hope have similar goals.” Liz reached into her purse and pulled out a business card for each man. “Call me if you run into any problems. I’ve given Sergeant Duff a stack of information about our agency and the people we resettle. We have a lot of resources at our fingertips. And please support Pastor Stephen in his effort to start a church. It’s the best thing that could happen to this neighborhood.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Sam said. “Thanks again for coming by, Liz. You’re welcome anytime.”

“I’ll be back on Saturday. I promised to let Shauntay braid my hair.”

His grin broadened. “Good—you’ll get to meet my fiancée. Ana teaches a writing class on Saturdays.”

Dreading the thought of any deeper involvement with Joshua’s friends, Liz gave the men a nod of farewell and turned to go. “You aren’t planning to walk to your car by yourself, are you?” Terell accompanied her out of the office, Brandy clutching his hand. “Did you park nearby?”

“Not far. Your door guard—Raydell?—will keep an eye on me.”

“Naw, that’s no good. We got Hypes casing our set day and night. They’re looking for trouble. You’ll be a sitting duck out there. Let’s find Duff.”

“No, really it’s—”

Too late. Terell lifted the whistle that hung by a lanyard from his neck and gave an ear-piercing blow. Joshua—who had been hunkered down talking to some kids at the far end of the room—turned to look. So did everyone else.

“Yo, Duff! Your lady!” Terell’s long arm snaked overhead, his index finger pointing down at Liz as he yelled. “Walk her out!”

Mortified, she ducked her head and started for the door. She hadn’t made it halfway there when Joshua fell in alongside her.

“I thought you’d gone,” he said.

“You’re the one who walked away.” She focused on the metal detector. “I’ve been talking to your buddies.”

“Sam and Terell? Listen, Liz—don’t pay any attention to what they say.”

“They said a refugee church led by Pastor Stephen would be a good idea. I’m sure you’ll encourage him, too. Right?”

A low groan rumbled deep in Joshua’s chest. “My goal is to find that guy a real job, an apartment and some kind of transportation. I’ve got to head back to Texas. If he wants to start a church, he’ll need to do it on his own time.”

“I didn’t realize you were a janitor, like me. Mopping up the mess left by genocide—but not getting deeply involved with the people. Finding them employment, a place to live. That’s about all I’ve been able to do at Refugee Hope. The name is a little ironic.”

“You give them hope, Liz. Meeting the basic needs of a family is important.”

“I want to do more. When I met you this morning, I thought you did, too.” They had arrived at the door. Shauntay and the dog were nowhere in sight. “I’ll let myself out, Sergeant Duff. I work in these neighborhoods. I’m not afraid.”

He was two steps ahead of her. “I’ll see you to your car.”

“Don’t. Please.” She shook her head. “I’m not comfortable with you.”

“Because of what Terell said.” Blocking her path, he pushed through the one-way swinging door. He glanced up and down the street, then beckoned her through. “Terell jumped to conclusions. I barely mentioned you.”

Liz held her breath as she walked past him. She could not allow herself to look, to smell, to touch. Dreams and goals lay clearly ahead of her. A sweaty ex-Marine on his way home to Texas was not among them.

The streetlights were inadequate, she saw at once. Darkness hovered in doorways and alleys. A muffled, pumping drumbeat pulsed from open windows. The scent of cigarette smoke and urine mingled in the humid air. A woman laughed. A man shouted. A bottle broke.

Liz gripped her keys in one hand—the long car key jutting between index and middle fingers to serve as a weapon if the need arose. Her small canister of pepper spray dangled from the key ring. A class she’d taken in self-defense had prepared her for this. She mentally reviewed the weak points on an attacker’s body, reminded herself to check her car—front and back seats—before getting in, scanning her surroundings.

Of course, it didn’t hurt to have Joshua Duff at her side. The sudden realization of his military training flooded Liz. Fear slunk away. Wariness eased. She let herself drift closer to him as they crossed the street.

“That’s my car.” She pointed out the American-made compact. “Thank you. I guess…all right, I am grateful you came with me. I thought Raydell would be out here.”

“The kid with the gold tooth?” Joshua frowned. “He’s been on door duty all day. Sam said someone is always supposed to be standing guard…. Uh-oh.”

Liz turned in the direction of his gaze. Two figures were pressed against a wall a hundred feet from Haven’s door. She recognized Shauntay’s tall, slender shape. The other had to be Raydell.

“Where’s the dog?” Joshua tensed. His arm stretched out in front of Liz as she backed against her car. “The kids have gone AWOL. Someone’s taken the dog.”

“Duke. That’s his name,” Liz whispered. “Do you see anyone?”

“Get into your car, Liz. Drive. I’ll take care of this.”

She spotted three silhouettes under the awning of the shuttered building beside Haven. “There,” she whispered, stepping close. “To the left.”

“I’ve got ’em.” He bent slightly. Something small and shiny materialized in his hand. A glint of silver. “Liz, get into the car.”

When she didn’t obey, his voice hardened. “Do it now.”

“This is America, Sergeant.” She slipped her cell phone from her bag and pressed a single, preprogrammed key. “And by the way, I don’t take orders well.”

As she spoke, the three stepped out of the shadows, the dog at their side. Young men. In the light, she saw their white T-shirts. Haven garb? One held Duke’s leash. The canine whimpered. Were these good kids? Or Hypes?

A glance at the entwined pair in the distance gave her little hope. They’d be no help. Raydell and Shauntay had other things on their minds.

“They’ve got the dog,” Joshua said. “They want us to know that. It’s a first step. They’ll try to take you next.”

“They don’t want me. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this.”

Sensing a transformation in Joshua that frightened her, Liz touched his shoulder. “The police are on the way—I just called. Relax. We’ll find out what’s going on.”

She heard him breathing. Sensed the strain of muscle against fabric. Saw the knife in his hand.

This man would erupt, she understood suddenly. He would kill.

Before he could move, she stepped around him. At that moment, the dog leaped.

Chapter Five

C haos. The kind of pandemonium Joshua knew well enveloped the street. As the dog yelped, straining against his leash, adrenaline surged into Joshua’s veins. His mind snapped into combat mode.

Enemy contact.

Prepare to engage.

His body tensed and his heart hammered. Gripping his weapon, he assessed the situation.

Night. Three humans approaching. Two more at a distance. One dog. Business district—storefronts, sidewalk, street. He sorted priorities. His own safety. The safety of those in his charge.

Those in his charge?

There was just one—the woman beside him, too small, out of uniform, unarmed. She didn’t fit his paradigm, and the reality tripped him up.

“Duke! Duke!” A teenage girl ran toward the dog.

“Stop, Shauntay! Come back!”

“Break yourself, Raydell,” she screamed. “Break yourself!”

Shouts, shrieks. The dog tore free. White teeth bared, fur bristling.

The enemy materialized, then faded. People pushing, shoving, struggling for position. Joshua saw his opportunity and moved into the action—blocked, protected, surged into offense mode. He knew these moves.

Yet there were no guns. No explosions.

Why not? Again—unexpected.

The knife in his hand flashed. Why couldn’t he see better? He reached for his night-vision goggles. Gone. How had he lost them?

“Joshua! No—stop!”

Small bare hands gripped his arm. The woman’s voice called his name again. Joshua!

He halted, fighting for breath. Blinking back sweat. Trying to focus.

Two vehicles swung onto the street, lights flashing, sirens wailing. Police.

He read the word and shook his head. That wasn’t right. It should be written in Arabic, a language he knew almost as well as English. Something had gone wrong.

The police cars stopped, doors opened. The enemy fled.

Joshua rubbed his hand over his face, wiping away perspiration as he tried to make sense of it. Where was he? Was this the nightmare again?

“What’s going on here?” The voice spoke in English, and he saw the face. The order came at him. “Drop the knife! Drop the knife!”

Who was this man? He couldn’t move.

“Joshua? Joshua, are you all right? Please talk to me.”

He recognized the eyes, the lips. “Liz?”

“Give me the knife, Joshua.”

He knew her. This was Liz Wallace, and he was not in Baghdad. He handed her the weapon.

“Ma’am, I’ll take that. Do you know this man? Is that your dog over there?”

In the light of the cars’ headlamps, Joshua saw the dog lying on its side in the street. He tensed. Dead dogs often hid explosive devices—IEDs. Didn’t these people know that? Why were they kneeling around the animal, touching it?

Others, mostly children, streamed from a nearby building. Haven.

“Duff—hey, man. What’s going on? What happened?” Sam Hawke laid a firm hand on his shoulder, stepped close. His voice was low. “Time to let your guard down, Duff. Relax. This is St. Louis.”

Joshua blinked. St. Louis. Of course it was. He knew that.

Sam’s voice again. “It’s all right, Officer. This man is my guest.”

Hawke edged Joshua off the street and onto the sidewalk. “Okay, listen to me. I’ve been through this drill before, Duff. You’ll get used to it after a while—the constant triggers. The spurts. It’s confusing, takes you back into the conflict. But you’re with me now. Let me handle things, okay?”

“Yes.” It was all he could manage.

Standing on the sidewalk, Joshua watched his friend return to the cluster of people in the street. Still breathing hard, he tried to force his brain to reconfigure. He wanted to believe Hawke.

St. Louis.

But how? The situation had been identical to what he’d encountered countless times in the alleys and roadways of Iraq and Afghanistan. Street patrol, confusion, insurgents, dogs, children, the innocent mingled with the enemy.

Yet, this was different. English signs, police cars, street lingo. A white woman, no uniform, head uncovered. Soft curly hair framing her pretty face. She approached him now.

“Joshua?” Her voice was soft, lyrical as she said his name. “Are you hurt?”

How could he answer that? Of course he was hurt. Everything hurt. His head, his body, his conscience, his heart. Could he ever explain what the years had done to him?

“I need to re-up,” he said. The words came from someplace deep inside. “I don’t know how to exist outside it.”

She stepped closer, leaning into him. Her shoulder was warm against his. Tension ebbed at once. Clarity returned.

“The dog…Did I—”

“No, it wasn’t you. One of the others had a knife, too.”

Joshua bent his head, massaged his brow. If his focus had been off, he might just as easily have been the perpetrator. This was bad. Sam Hawke’s guard dog—now one of Haven’s few defense systems—lay dead in the street.

“I need to talk to Hawke.” He started forward, but Liz slipped her arm around his.

“Stay with me.” She looked at him, her eyes deep. “Let Sam and Terell deal with the police. They know what to do.”

She was silent for a moment before speaking again. “You scared me.”

Joshua lifted his focus, searching for stars. He saw none. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Well…tell me what just happened.”

“You saw what happened.”

“Look, Joshua, in my work with refugees…I’ve studied trauma and terror. The constant presence of death. I know what those things do to people. I understand PTSD.”

Joshua couldn’t hold in a groan. Post-traumatic stress disorder. He’d listened to endless lectures about PTSD—before he deployed, amid the conflict and when he got back. He knew the symptoms. Knew he had them, too.

So what? Everyone who had been deployed had at least a little PTSD. Troops who hadn’t seen a second of combat had heard incoming fire, mortars exploding, A10 tank killers and Apache helicopters cutting the air overhead. Everyone had seen things, heard things, done things they didn’t like to remember. Joshua had always believed that those who couldn’t transition were pathetic.

He was not a weak man.

Besides, he didn’t like the cure for PTSD. Talk, the experts said. Talk to someone—a counselor, a minister, a loved one. Tell your wife. Tell your girlfriend. Spill your guts.

Exactly what he didn’t want to do. Why talk about something you’d just as soon forget? Why relive the close calls? No man in his right mind wanted to explain how it felt to be shot at, to handle the dead body of a close friend, to kill an enemy combatant. Joshua didn’t want to admit his fear, his grief or his guilt. Who would?

The way he’d always handled it was to hunker down and try to forget. When he couldn’t forget—which he finally understood he never would—he focused forward to the next deployment. Back in the saddle with others who understood. In his youth, he drank too much in an effort to manage the pain. Now, anger sometimes masked it. But rage and alcohol were not solutions. Control held the answers, he believed. Self-control and constant prayer.

“I know it’s not easy to talk,” Liz Wallace said, snapping him back to reality. “But I’d be willing to listen.”

“No thanks. I know how to handle a transition. Been through the process many times. There’s always an adjustment period. Doesn’t last long.”

“Meanwhile dogs die.”

Joshua stiffened. He could see people loading the animal into the back of a car. Through shards of light, he distinguished Sam and Terell amid the throng. Others—teens and kids—swarmed the street. Terell was calling out, trying to regain control. Sam focused on the dog. Raydell paced, anger and frustration in every step.

And now Stephen Rudi approached.

“My friend!” he cried, holding out a hand. “Are you well?”

“No problems here.” Joshua shook the hand. “Your family okay? The kids?”

“My children are inside. Of course—upstairs. But you? I was told men attacked you. Here! In St. Louis, America!”

“America, Paganda, Iraq. Every nation has its problems, Pastor.”

“My family—we did not expect to find such a situation here. My wife’s brother said nothing of this in his letter. These gangs. This is what we saw in Paganda too many times. Thuggery. Looting. Riots and killing. It is very bad.”

“Calm down, my friend. I’m working to move you and the wife and kids to your own place. We’ll find your brother-in-law and get you a job. Your wife can work, too. The kids will go to school. You won’t have to live with violence.”

“But why is it here? This is America! This is the United States of America! How many years did we wait in that refugee camp in Kenya, praying to find salvation in the land of our hope? Now what? Has the hostility followed us?”

“It was here long before you arrived,” Liz told him. “Poverty, greed, empty promises. These always breed problems. America isn’t exempt, Pastor Stephen.”

He shook his head. “Nimeshangaa.”

“Say what?” Joshua glanced at Liz.

“ Shangaa. It’s a Swahili word. Means to astonish, overwhelm.”

“Even to defeat,” Pastor Stephen added. “I am amazed by this news. Greatly discouraged.”

Liz touched the man’s shoulder. “We’re all discouraged by the problems in the inner cities of America. Just like in Paganda, there are no easy answers here.”

“I cannot bring my children from one place of terror to another! How can this be? Here they even kill the dog!”

“Dog ain’t dead.” Raydell shouldered his way through the crowd and stepped onto the sidewalk with the others. “Sam’s takin’ Duke to the emergency vet. This is all my fault. Sergeant Duff, man, I’m sorry. I let everyone down. I was supposed to guard the door, and I got tempted away.”

“Shauntay,” Liz said. “Is she in a gang?”

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