“We’re not giving it back to them, I promise,” Greg interjected, wiping his hand over his face. “We need to use it as leverage for the hostages still in their possession, but we’re not giving it back.”
As far as I knew, Greg’s statement was patently false. My understanding of the situation was the opposite. We were, in fact, going to leverage it for the hostages and return the funds once they were released. However, Greg’s promise to Dr. Evans sounded so convincing it caused the hairs on the back of my neck to prickle with warning.
“Then what will you do with it?”
“Other than arrange it into a throne of money for photo ops, we’re going to booby-trap it. Then, once the hostages are released, we’re going to alert the US embassy and let them deal with the ninety-nine million dollars.”
“I thought you said it was one hundred million?”
“It is. But it’ll be one hundred minus one million when the US is notified, as Doctors Without Borders will be receiving a substantial donation from the corrupt tossers of the Nigerian government.”
Dr. Evans lifted her chin with a suspicious and prideful tilt. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Yes. Is it working? I would offer sexual favors, but my wife is sitting right here and I’m too bloody tired for a lap dance. I might be able to manage the Roger Rabbit if you give me a Gatorade.”
Her eyes narrowed, flickering to me for a brief moment as though to gauge my reaction.
I shrugged. “I’d take the money, his sexual favors are meh.”
Greg’s mouth fell open in shock and, thank God, Dr. Evans laughed.
“That’s it, Fe. No lap dances for a month.” He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look offended. But then he moved them to the table and allowed his head to fall forward into his folded arms, muttering, “So tired. So very, very tired.”
The good doctor gave him a sympathetic smile, obviously her ingrained healing instincts were taking over, and she sighed. “Yes. All right. Take the mobile unit.”
His head shot up, but before he could speak she lifted a finger. “But, you have to get some sleep first.”
“We don’t have time.”
“Make time. You will sleep for no less than three hours. Then you will both eat, shower, and dress in clean scrubs. Then and only then will you take my mobile clinic.” Under her breath she added, “I don’t need you falling asleep and crashing it into a tree on the way to get my million dollars.”
***
Less than twenty minutes later, Greg and I were situated in a private hospital room. Once Dr. Evans had departed, Greg rolled the bed against a wall and lifted the side rail.
“Wife. Let us sleep,” he said, collapsing onto the mattress and opening his arms to me.
I didn’t argue. I flopped down next to him and scootched backward, my back to his front. He pulled me into a strong embrace, kissing my temple, and insinuating his leg between mine. Though I was tremendously tired, it took me a while of staring and blinking before my mind quieted enough to truly consider surrendering to unconsciousness.
Seconds became minutes and Greg’s arms grew loose and heavy, and his breathing evened. I smiled at the plain white wall in front of me, because—whether at home in Chicago or on the run in Nigeria—listening to the soft sounds of my husband’s slumber and the feel of his weight, warmth, and strength at my back was a luxury. I relaxed as well, and was nearly asleep, when Greg inhaled sharply and his body spasmed.
Nightmares.
Greg was susceptible to them. Especially during times of high stress.
“Are you okay?” I glanced over my shoulder.
He looked at me, his eyes glassy and disoriented. Obviously, he was still caught in a web of sleep inertia.
I turned completely so we were face to face and placed my hand on his cheek. “Hey. Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Greg swallowed, his handsome features marred by a severe frown.
I was about to question him further, but he cut me off by tugging me forward. Greg brought me flush against him, binding me in a constricting hug.
“We have to get out of here,” he whispered. His warm breath on my neck paired with his despairing tone made me tense.
“I know. We will. We’ll sleep, move the money, drive to the airfield, and leave at midnight.”
He nodded, squeezing me again. After several moments I recognized that he had no plans to let me go. I tucked my arms between us and snuggled into the warmth of his body. Eventually, curled within his protective embrace, I dozed off.
I slept so hard I didn’t have any dreams—at least none that I could remember.
Then I heard Greg say, “Don’t be mad.”
I frowned, as I was mostly asleep. I felt his fingers on my hair at my temples. Blinking, I opened my drowsy eyes, and found him bending over me. Now I was disoriented because I thought he was next to me on the bed. Based on the sunlight filtering through the window, I realized I’d been asleep for several hours, though it felt like two minutes.
He’d shaved. He looked thinner, tired. He also looked guilty.