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      MILLS & BOON

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      When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob’s hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, “Let me go, for it is daybreak.”

      But Jacob replied, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.”

      The man asked him, “What is your name?”

      “Jacob,” he answered.

      Then the man said, “Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome.”

      —Genesis 32:25–28

      A huge thank you to my family—Andrew, David, Sarah, Peter and Noah, and my secret weapon Ellen Tarver for helping me craft a book that I pray brings glory to the Lord.

      Contents

      PROLOGUE

      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

      LETTER TO READER

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      PROLOGUE

      Sometimes Chet Stryker could still feel Carissa’s muddy grip slide from his. He could still see those brown eyes, stripped of all mystery, pleading with him, could still hear her scream echoing through the chambers of his brittle soul. Tonight, the memory twisted him inside his bedsheets, tightening like a constrictor around his legs, lacing his chest, noosing his breath. Sweat slicked his body, despite the rattle of the air conditioner pumping out breath against the sweltering, polluted Moscow air. He hiccupped, and with a cry that sounded more animal than human, he lurched into a sitting position, ripping himself from the dream, blinking against the darkness.

      It wasn’t real. Not real. Still, Chet pressed his hand to his bare chest, his heart jackhammering under his sternum, still smelling the cloying odor of bodies pressing him to the earth, his face ground against the loam of decaying leaves.

      He closed his eyes, but of course, that only made it worse. His mind too easily scraped up the image, now twenty years old, of Akif Bashim pushing Carissa to the dirt, holding her there. Hurting her, even as his Ossetian tribesmen made Chet watch.

      Taking Chet’s life apart, one blow after another.

      “No!” He shook himself out of the nightmare and fumbled for the lamp, knocking over his water onto the carpet, his watch after it. The light switch slid under his sweat-slickened fingers, refusing to turn. He gave up, and for an agonizing, lost moment, fought with his tangled covers. Then, freeing himself, he lunged from the bed toward the bathroom.

      He slapped on the light, braced his hands on the sink and simply breathed. One breath in, the next out. In. Out. Breathe.

      He turned on the faucet, letting cold water trickle through his shaking fingers. Scooping it up, he splashed it on his face. The shock of the icy water against his skin loosened the last fingers of the dream from his mind, and he blew out another long breath. Stared into the mirror.

      Water, caught in his overnight beard, glistened in the mean fluorescence, and his face seemed more brutal than he’d remembered. Or maybe he usually just refused to look too closely. He touched the spiderweb scar on his abdomen, running his fingers along the ridges, touching the hard knot of the scar tissue in the center. Sometimes he could still feel the instant, blinding burn of the bullet tearing through his flesh, see David’s eyes flash with horror. Could hear his own teeth-grinding grunt as he crumpled onto the cement, hands clutched over his wound. Chet had let his partner shoot him without a whimper. Because that was what patriots did when asked to sacrifice for their country, especially while working undercover. At the time, the pain seemed a reasonable cost to help David keep his cover in a Chinese triad.

      But no one had told him about the residual suffering, the ache and sometimes sudden, sharp pain. As if the wound still might be healing, deep inside, even after more than a year. Thankfully, most

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