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In a moment, it subsided, and he let her go. But he turned her, shaking his head. “This is dangerous.”
“We need to stop him?—”
“Yes. But not by being buried with him.”
Yes, Doyle was right. She nodded.
Then the mountain shook again, this time with a grumble that echoed through the chambers.
Doyle grabbed her hand and shouted, “Run!”
SEVEN
So the ideaof setting up a rogue shipping port through the sulfur mines could officially be categorized in the Bad Idea file.
Four hours later, and despite a shower, Doyle still harbored the rank odor of rotten egg as he sweated on the soccer field. He couldn’t believe he’d nearly gotten Tia killed. They’d practically dived out of the tunnel and into fresh air. He’d stood at the maw of the rock, hands on his knees, just shaking.
Worst-nightmare alert: being buried alive.
Maybe for Tia also, because she’d stared over at him with wide, terrified eyes.
They’d said nothing as they hiked down the hill, back to the monastery. Probably her deciding that she’d had enough of the near-death dates with Doyle.
He didn’t know how it ended up that way every time—but he’d never been so far from himself and what he’d expected of this mission than in the last few days.
He far preferred to play soccer with his kids—yes,his, because weirdly, as Lionel and Aliyah and Jamal spent time with their possible new families today, he couldn’t help but hang around, listen to their conversations, even want to join in as Jamal kicked a soccer ball with Hunter Jameson.
The boy’s laughter had found his soul, stirred it with a strange feeling.
Please, God, protect him. Let this be the right choice.
Now, as Doyle ran down the edge of the field, the coach of the blue team, shouting encouragement to the Hope House against Hope House players, today’s near cave-in seemed a thousand years away.
Especially since Taj had recruited Tia to help him coach the other team. Doyle kept glancing at her, with her dark hair back in a ponytail, wearing a pair of white shorts—wow, she had nice legs—and a red T-shirt. She seemed to have dived full-in with cheering on her team.
And he’d thought she didn’t even like soccer.
“C’mon, Gabriella, don’t let Jimmie get around you!” He cupped his hands around his mouth, hoping to deliver the message as the ball shot past her, only to have thirteen-year-old Jimmie Costas pick it up.
He kicked and the ball went wide of the goal, and good thing because Rohan had already let three goals shoot past him.
Doyle thought of Kemar and the many times he’d played goalkeeper. For a second, the memory of the boy’s broken expression as he pleaded for his brother tore through him.
Please, God, watch over him.
He’d been praying more lately, probably thanks to Tia and her Great Escapades, but...
He couldn’t seem to purge from his brain his words to her what felt like a century ago—but was actually only three days—about being called to be a missionary.
It was true, but the old calling felt dusty and stale. At least, until he’d heard himself speaking it aloud. Now he couldn’t seem to set it away again.
“Out!” Anita shouted, ruling for his team.
He called time-out and ran in, gathering the kids on the pitch.
“Okay, listen—” He put his hand on Rohan’s shoulder. The kid wore grass stains on his hands and knees, and a little blood where he’d scraped his chin. “You’re doing great out there. It’s a new position?—”
“I stink at this!” Rohan shook off his hand. “Put me back in at center, Mr. D. Let Elias play goalie.”