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What was he thinking? “I meant Jeff and Allie. I can see why they chose this place for …” Her face grew hot.

  Steve swiveled to face her, his eyes peering through the nighttime vision binoculars. “Do you have a temperature or something?”

  Infrared sensors. Great. Steve could see her blushing through the NOD. She was probably glowing. “No. I'm fine. It's just that I've never spent the night with—” She stopped. “Changing the subject.”

  Steve set the binoculars down and held her by the shoulders. “Sometimes I wonder what's going through that pretty head of yours.”

  What was going through her head? To be sure there were repeated thoughts about being here alone with Steve Bancroft, a man Julia could not deny she had developed strong feelings for. A considerate, kind, handsome—she turned away from Steve.

  Stop it Julia Weiss.

  They could be killed before this night ended, and they needed to watch for anyone approaching. Besides all that, Steve still did not understand the strength or the source of her resolve to never kill a human being or have a relationship with someone who did.

  “Can you believe this?” Steve touched her shoulder.

  She whirled toward him, keenly aware of the conflicting emotions raised by him touching her. “Believe what?”

  “Someone left a six pack of twenty-four-ounce water bottles.”

  He pushed one at her. “Not cold, but cool and wet.”

  She was thirsty. One look at the bottle of water and her mouth suddenly felt parched, dry as the Sahara. Julia grabbed the bottle, broke the seal, flipped the lid, and guzzled.

  “Whoa, whoa. You keep that up and you’ll be heaving again. But it won't be dry this time.”

  She pulled the bottle from her lips and let the water moisten her mouth, tongue, and throat. But it wasn't enough. A craving deep inside insisted she guzzle until she slaked her thirst. But this time she sucked on the bottle, let the cool water moisten her mouth and throat, then closed the lid.

  “Atta girl.” Steve's white teeth flashed in the starlight as he smiled at her.

  “I'm not a girl, Steve.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “Shouldn't you be noticing the northeast slope, the way we came up?”

  “Yeah. And you probably need some rest, if you can sleep on that wooden bed. I think visitors are supposed to bring their own air mattress to put on it.”

  “If I'm tired, I can sleep on anything. But … I'm not tired.”

  He cocked his head. “Not tired?”

  “I mean not sleepy tired. I can watch for a while if you want to sleep.”

  “Uh…” Steve shifted his feet. He was antsy.

  “I get it. I'm not Special Forces trained. You wouldn't trust—”

  Steve placed a finger over her lips. “That’s not so. I would trust you with my life, any day. You’ve more than earned my trust. But I trust me more with your—but I don’t mean I would—uh … that didn't come out quite like—”

  “Oh, it came out clear enough, Mr. Bancroft.” How could she be here on a mountaintop, in the middle of the night, flirting with someone she swore she could have no serious relationship with?

  Maybe it was time to tell Steve why. “Steve, you know that I’m a pacifist, don’t you?”

  The smile on Steve’s face faded. “I thought you were a Christian.”

  “How could you doubt that after—”

  “Because you don’t subscribe to the Christian worldview … not all of it.”

  The heat rose under the collar of her summer blouse. How dare he make that accusation? “What do you mean?”

  “I just don’t understand how a strong Christian like you can claim to be a pacifist. It doesn't fit in with the Christian worldview. Besides, pacifism is unlivable in a fallen world.”

  It took all her will to keep from yelling at him. She was letting Steve control the direction of this conversation. Julia needed to take control, to force Steve to face the real issue. Maybe he needed an example. “But people like the Amish live pacifism in this … fallen world.”

  “They can pretend to be pacifists only because other people risk their lives to protect the Amish. People even kill to protect them—police, military.” He shook his head. “I’d be too ashamed to join any pacifist group.”

  She had totally lost control of the conversation, and the pressure building inside her, threatened to explode out of her mouth in words she would regret. “Are you saying I should be ashamed?”

  “No, I'm suggesting that maybe you should tell me what changed you, what made you believe the way you do.”

  Steve had opened the door for the conversation she wanted them to have. But could she walk through the door to a place where so many horrific memories resided?

  Haunting, terrorizing sounds came at her, full force. People screamed. Guns fired, hundreds of them. Then a gun pointed at her.

  Julia’s legs grew weak. The room seemed to rock back and forth.

  Steve’s arms wrapped around her. “You’re shaking. It's okay, Julia. You're safe … and I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to.”

  “I don't want to, Steve. But I need to. You need to know.” If he knew, maybe he would understand. She wasn’t a coward, simply a person unwilling to commit atrocities against other people.

  Steve eased her down to the wooden bed frame, sat beside Julia, and nodded to her.

  “I’m an MK, missionaries’ kid. From the time I was eight until I was fourteen, my parents ministered to the Yoruba Tribe in the northern part of Nigeria. Many members of the tribe had become Christians. I loved the Yoruba people, and it seemed we were a big, happy family. I can still hear their rhythmic music and see the colorful clothes they wore for tribal celebrations. They could dance, really dance.

  “I had three close friends in our village, a girl, Bisi, my age. Her brother Jonathan, was two years older than me. He preferred to be called by his Yoruba name, Chibueze, because it means God is King. The third friend was their cousin, Ore, who was Jonathan's age.

  “Bisi loved to sing and dance and, like Brock, she had a way with words. She was gentle, beautiful … and so kind. Not long after we moved to the village, some older boys teased me, because even my dark brown tan was much lighter than their dark chocolate skin. In just two sentences, Bisi exposed the evil in their teasing. It shamed them and they stopped. From that day on, Bisi and I were best friends.

  ‘She taught me their language and customs. Bisi, Jonathan, Ore, and I spent all of our spare time together. We played Ayo when it rained and hopscotch when it didn't. We—”

  “Hopscotch. How did you get boys to—”

  “We modified the rules. They had to jump two squares at a time. But it didn’t matter, I was going to win because I could jump as far as the boys and run as fast as they could.”

  Julia drew a deep breath and let it back out, slowly, trying to savor the treasured moments before everything changed. “We sang and danced together. We attended church and school together. When I turned thirteen, and started looking at boys in a different way, I thought Jonathan and Ore were the most handsome guys I'd ever met. I seldom saw any white boys.”

  “Ore saved me from being bitten by Carpet Vipers at least three times while we played in the evenings. Once, Jonathan stood up for me when older boys from another village harassed me. He was outnumbered and beaten badly before some men stopped the fight. But he said he’d do it again, if he had to.”

  Steve grinned. “He sounds a bit like Benjamin.”

  She looked up into Steve’s eyes. “Or you.”

  “Yeah, well … what happened next?”

  “The four of us couldn't have been closer if we were brothers and sisters … until the Islamists showed up.”

  Steve draped an arm over her shoulders. “I think I know where this is going.”

  Julia leaned against Steve and tried to draw from his huge store of strength to continue her story. “After the men wearing mismatched pieces of military garb and carryin
g rifles came and started recruiting, it seemed like someone darkened the sun. It forgot to shine on our village. Those dark days began when I turned fourteen.

  “From that time on, Jonathan stuck close to Bisi and me. It was like he thought he needed to protect us, though he would've been helpless against those men with automatic weapons. But Ore grew sullen and angry. He made cruel remarks to Bisi and me. We didn't understand it. It hurt us, deeply.”

  “I’ll bet you noticed more than just a change in mood from him. I’ve learned a bit about radicalization.” Steve’s voice became hard-edged, full of cynicism. “It’s a stupid word for people who become stupid when they believe lies straight from the pit.”

  “We noticed more than a mood change. We saw less and less of Ore. Sometimes he would walk to a place outside the village where the Islamists preached jihad and promised the young men—well, they promised them things so vile I won't even repeat them, things on earth and in their perverted version of heaven. The young men simply had to join in jihad and a sensual paradise was theirs.”

  Steve snorted in disgust. “People will believe anything they need to believe to justify fulfilling their selfish desires.” He looked directly into her eyes.

  Had Steve meant that for her, too? She shook off the thought and continued. “Well, one day, after Ore turned sixteen, he walked out of the village and didn't come back.

  ‘Other young men left, too. Then we heard rumors of killings, kidnappings, and rapes occurring at other villages.”

  “Rapes.” Steve’s body stiffened against hers. “With radical Islam, or anywhere they practice Sharia law, it always comes back to that, men sexually abusing women and kids. You want to know why, Julia?”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “They make such a big deal about sexual purity. But the men punish the women for the men’s sexual incontinence. Wear a burqa. Paint the windows to your house so men can’t see you. You might tempt them to sin. If a woman’s sexually assaulted, it’s her fault. All because their religion is impotent. There’s no power in their false god, certainly no power over sin. The one true God puts His Spirit in us, empowering us to live a holy—sorry. I was preaching.” He looked at Julia, studying her face as if he expected to see a negative reaction.

  She gave him a big smile. “Keep on preachin’, brother.”

  Steve chuckled.

  Steve’s words, and the conviction with which he spoke them, made her feel still more protected in his presence. Even alone on a mountaintop, in Jeff and Allie’s “honeymoon suite,” with emotions and attraction running high, this man would protect her … in every way. With Steve Bancroft, she was safe.

  “Where was I?” She paused. “We suspected that the perpetrators were affiliated with Al Qaeda. But soon they started calling themselves Boko Haram, meaning they were against all things Western, especially schools that provided a Western education.

  “The elders armed the men in our village, as much as they could, and the men took turns standing guard twenty-four seven.” She looked up at Steve.

  Her mention of Al Qaeda and Boko Haram had brought the intense look of a warfighter to Steve’s face. “I know the Nigerian government has been unstable at times, but didn’t they help you?”

  “No. The government was corrupt and seemed incapable of stopping the attacks … or unwilling. Whenever the jihadists wanted more recruits, or more girls to use, they attacked another village.”

  Steve gently lifted her chin until he could peer into her eyes. “Don’t you see, Julia, that’s why I—”

  “Let me finish, Steve. Please.”

  He moved his hand, cupping her cheek as disappointment filled his eyes. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Julia looked away, out the window into the star-sprinkled darkness of the night sky. “One day, the American Embassy contacted my parents. The State Department wanted us to evacuate. Mom and Dad had been working with the Yoruban people for so long, they said they needed to pray about it first. The next day … our village was attacked.”

  That day came storming back into Julia’s consciousness, vivid and brutal.

  Bisi gasped. Her eyes widened and she scanned the trees and huts around them.

  Julia whirled toward the crashing noises and angry shouts of men.

  An attack!

  Jonathan grabbed the two girls’ arms and pulled them behind a hut, out of sight of the attackers. He pointed toward the trees in front of them. Two hundred meters into the dense bushes and trees lay their secret hiding place, a place where Bisi, Julia, Jonathan, and Ore hid when they didn't want to be bothered by other kids. No one had ever found them there.

  The three sprinted into the thick bushes and squirmed around trees, moving deep into the dense vegetation.

  The staccato popping of automatic weapons sounded behind them. People yelling. People screaming.

  Mom and Dad!

  They were in their home at the far end of the village. Would these jihadists be brazen enough to kill American citizens?

  Julia prayed they wouldn't. But the sheer volume of shots fired could've killed everyone in the village several times over.

  The shrill screams of girls painted a picture of evil in Julia's mind that she couldn't erase. She recognized some of the crying voices. Pictured their faces.

  The jihadists were demonic. What they did couldn't be explained in any other way. Beliefs and practices this evil must've come from Satan, himself, including their unholy book and their violent, power-crazed prophet.

  Jonathan pulled the two girls into a tiny opening near the base of the tree.

  This had been a place of sanctuary for them for five or six years.

  Please, God, keep us safe.

  “Bisi, Julia …” Jonathan's hoarse whisper came between deep breaths. “… slow your breathing. Be still. Absolutely silent … no matter what you hear. They won't find us.”

  Maybe they couldn't find the three of them, but all the others in the village would either be killed or taken as slaves. Where would Bisi and Jonathan go when this was over? What if Julia’s mom and dad were killed or taken?

  The swishing sound of bushes being pushed aside came from Julia’s left. Someone moved through the tangle of vegetation, coming from the direction of the village.

  Jonathan put a finger over his lips.

  The sounds in the bushes grew louder. Now rapid footsteps came their way.

  Jonathan pulled Julia and Bisi behind a large tree trunk.

  A body leaped into the clearing on the other side of the tree.

  Julia stiffened and slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

  A uniformed man holding an automatic rifle circled the tree. “Do not move!”

  Ore. He pointed his weapon at Bisi. “If either of you move, she dies, kuffars.”

  “Come on, Ore,” Jonathan pleaded. “We are your friends. You—”

  “Shut up, dirty kuffars!” Ore raised his weapon.

  Jonathan leaped toward Ore, but Ore pulled the trigger, firing point-blank into Bisi's face.

  Julia covered her eyes. But she couldn’t block the sounds of the two boys fighting, grunting, rolling on the ground in front of her.

  Ore’s rifle fired again.

  Julia moved her hands from her face.

  Jonathan yelped in pain, then roared in anger. “You are dead, Ore!”

  Jonathan ripped Ore’s rifle from his hands and emptied the magazine into Ore’s body.

  Blood pooled around Ore’s still form on the ground.

  Jonathan’s knees bent and he fell on his side across Ore. Blood soaked the front of Jonathan’s shirt. “You’re safe, Julia. Stay here, until …” He exhaled slowly and life left his body. Jonathan died at her feet.

  Sounds of gunfire. Horrible cries of pain. Girls screaming. It went on for at least an hour, while Julia sat in the clearing holding Bisi's lifeless hand, unable to look at the disfigured face of her closest friend.

  Julia shivered and pushed the memories from her mind … for now.
But they would return to hurt and haunt. They always returned. “Steve, that's why I could never—”

  “That must've been horrible for you. But, Julia, don’t you see? Your friend Jonathan saved you. He gave his life for yours. That's what Jesus did for us too, and you have a relationship with him. So …”

  She knew where Steve’s logic was headed and it stopped her like she’d hit a mental brick wall. Steve’s words were true, but there were big differences in what Jesus did. “Jesus didn't go around killing people.”

  “Not then. But one day He will. Because of God’s justice, some people will be sentenced to eternal separation from God. Eternal death.”

  “I don't want to talk about it anymore.” No logic could remove the horrible memories from Julia’s mind. Right or wrong, words or thoughts of war would always reload the video of that day and force her to watch the vivid, gruesome images. How could she ever spend her life with someone whose job was to do such things to other human beings? She couldn’t. Not even if they were handsome, chivalrous, caring—not even someone like Steve. At that thought tears began to flow. An incredible amount of tears for a dehydrated body.

  How long had Julia been crying? Steve’s shirt, where her head lay against it, was wet with her tears. And how had she ended up in Steve’s arms? Sometimes the memories became so strong, they blocked out the present.

  Steve stroked her hair. “I understand, Julia. I—”

  “How can you say that?” She pulled free from Steve’s arms.

  He reached for her hand. “I know how you feel … really, but—”

  “There's always going to be a ‘but’, isn't there?” She pulled her hand away. “I’ll never understand how—”

  “How the horror of killing affects you, sickens you?” Steve paused. “Julia, the first time I saw someone shot to death in combat, a man in my detachment, one of my brothers, I puked my guts out. I…” Steve stopped as if he’d choked on his words.

  She met Steve’s intense gaze and saw the pain his eyes and face held. He knew about this horror and yet remained a warrior. “But you still kill people. I don't understand how anyone could do that, after…”