Page 24 of Deacon

By nine, jet lag claimed its first victim.

I tucked a sleepy Raff into bed.

On my way downstairs, Christine bid me goodnight and headed to her room with a paperback novel.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I stepped outside alone, past the saltwater pool and onto the cool beach sand.

I sat on the shore, knees up, staring out into the night.

The dark ocean stretched out forever, the white foam of the waves crashing under the moonlight.

For the first time in weeks, the clamor in my heart and head eased.

My gut intuited this would be a life-changing holiday.

I popped the tab on my beer and slugged it back, telling myself the heartbreak and burden of the last few years were now dead and buried.

I was finally ready to claim the future I spent most of my adult life fighting for.

Chapter 6

ANA

The dawn air over Addis Ababa wafted with the scent of roasted coffee beans and charcoal smoke from early-morning cooking fires outside the hotel’s gates.

A damp, high-altitude chill clung to the Hyatt Regency courtyard.

I shivered at the unexpected snap and zipped my canvas field jacket up to my chin, lifting my ceramic mug of scalding espresso to my lips.

Baz glanced up from his breakfast plate and eyed me.

‘Didn’t think it’d be cold in the Horn of Africa, did ya?’

His Australian twang was thick this morning.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

‘I always pack with all seasons in mind, but why didn’t anyone warn me that we were landing on a mountain peak?’

‘Builds character, mate,’ Baz murmured.

The man was a tease and an expert at delivering his humor deadpan.

At fifty-two, the Australian chief correspondent had a complexion resembling cracked boot leather, bushy brows, and a shock of wheat-colored hair.

He was also the most laid-back man I’d ever met, with zero sense of urgency when relaxed.

Yet I knew I’d trust him in a pinch; I’d worked several international assignments with him and seen him snap into fast, decisive action when needed.

He was an outstanding writer, and the shoot was his vision for a front-page piece for Panoramik.

‘You’re such an idiot,’ I told him, a smile breaking through my grogginess as I sipped the dark, rich beverage.

The liquid was so scalding hot it almost blistered my tongue, giving me the jolt I required after two hours of fitful sleep.

I was bone-weary and jet-lagged after our trek from Nashville to Addis.

We’d flown domestic into Atlanta, then boarded our international flight.