Chapter 8 #4
The water lapped against the hull. The boat rocked gently. Stars blazed overhead—cold and distant and indifferent.
York studied West’s face. Something shifted in his expression. “The only way you make a mistake,” York said slowly, “is if you don’t listen to God. If you let your pride tell you that you know more than He does.” He paused. “So what does God want you to do here?”
West stared at him. His brain stuttered. Stopped.
“I—” West’s throat closed. “I don’t know. I mean…I didn’t think God cared.”
York’s mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Something sadder. “I used to think that way.”
“Yeah?”
“Then I lost my memory for a season.” York’s voice dropped. “It’s a long story. But during that time—when I didn’t know who I was, what I’d done, what sins I’d committed—my eyes were opened to how much God cared.”
West’s pulse hammered. He couldn’t look away from York’s face.
“I’d lost my jaded, dark vision,” York continued. “All the cynicism. All the bitterness. All the walls I’d built to protect myself from feeling anything. For the first time, I was set free from the prison of my regrets and fears.”
“And then you got your memory back.”
“And then I got my memory back.” York nodded.
“And I realized just how much God had forgiven me of. How many times He’d protected me from myself.
How repeatedly, when I went it alone—trusted my own judgment, my own strength, my own plans—I failed.
But when I trusted God?” He paused. “He worked it out. Even when I had trouble along the way. Even when it hurt. Even when I couldn’t see the outcome. ”
West looked away, out into the darkness, the twinkle of lights on the shore.
“There’s a quote,” York said, “from Jim Elliot. A missionary. A martyr who trusted God even though it cost him everything on earth.” He held West’s gaze. “He wrote ‘He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose.’”
The words settled in West’s chest. Heavy. Burning.
What he cannot keep.
Britta. A future with her. A life where he got to keep kissing her and holding her and protecting her.
That which he cannot lose.
He didn’t know what that might be.
“Get over yourself,” York said. Not unkind. Just honest. “Get over your pride. Realize you’re not running from other people’s control—you just don’t want to give up your own.”
West’s breathing stopped. He’d been telling himself he was protecting her. Fighting for her. Keeping her alive.
But maybe he’d been fighting to stay in control. Fighting to prove he could do what the Secret Service couldn’t. Fighting to keep from admitting he needed help.
And that pride—that self-reliance, that refusal to surrender—that was what would get her killed.
“Okay.” West’s voice came out hoarse. Broken. “Yes. You’re right.”
York waited. Silent.
“Go back to shore.” West forced the words out. Each one felt like swallowing glass. “I’ll drive the boat in. Meet Secret Service at the dock.”
“You’re doing the right thing.”
“I hope it doesn’t end with me in jail.” West’s laugh came out hollow. “I stole a boat. Bent every rule Martinez gave me.”
“Ham will smooth it over. Just bring her in safe.”
West nodded. Words wouldn’t come.
York pushed off from the railing. His powerboat drifted slightly. He started his engine, the sound shattering the quiet night.
“West.” York’s voice cut through the motor noise. “For what it’s worth? You kept her alive. That matters.”
Then he was pulling away. The powerboat cut through the dark water, heading back toward shore.
West watched until he was alone again with just the stars and the ocean and the weight of what he’d agreed to do.
So, yes, yes, it was time to say goodbye.
West scrubbed his hands over his face. Took a breath. Another. Forced his pulse to slow. Forced his brain to shift from emotional devastation back to tactical thinking.
He had to tell Britta.
He opened the galley door. “Britt? Um, can you come up here? We need to talk.”
Nothing.
“Britta?”
He took a step down into the living area.
Empty.
He flipped on the light. The narrow bunk was empty. The blanket still rumpled where Britta must have sat while making the call to her father. But no Britta.
West checked the tiny bathroom. Empty.
Checked the storage area. Empty.
Checked every corner of the small cabin space. Nothing.
He stood in the cabin and all he could think was Did someone take her? Pull up beside the boat while I was in the stern with York…
No. He would have seen that and—
Wait. The porthole window hung open, night air seeping into the room.
Oh, no, no—
West scrambled back up to the deck. Moved to the port side and stared out over the black water stretching out into the darkness.
“Britta!”
She was gone.
West’s hands gripped the railing so hard the metal cut into his palms. His breathing came in ragged gasps.
His phone was in his pocket. He should call York. Call Ham. Call someone. Launch a search. Sound the alarm.
Because somewhere out there in the darkness, Britta was alone. In danger, whether she knew it or not.
Britta, what have you done?