In Sheep's Clothing
®
Finalist
SUSAN MAY WARREN
“Susie writes a delightful story…. A few hours of reading doesn’t get better.”
—Dee Henderson, CBA bestselling author of the O’Malley series
“Susan Warren is definitely a writer to watch!”
—Deborah Raney, RITA
®
Award-winning author of
A Vow To Cherish
and
Over the Waters
“Susan May Warren is an exciting new writer whose delightful stories weave the joy of romantic devotion together with the truth of God’s love.”
—Catherine Palmer, Christy Award
®
-winning author of
Love’s Haven
“
Nadia
blended heart-stopping romantic suspense with authentic detail that plunked me into Russian life. The result was a dynamic read!”
—Colleen Coble, bestselling author of
Distant Echoes
and
Black Sands
“Get ready for an exhilarating adventure through modern-day Russia. International intrigue and a handsome stranger combine in this moving romance.”
—Jefferson Scott, bestselling author of the Operation Firebrand series on
Ekaterina
For Your glory, Lord
SUSAN MAY WARREN
King David is one of my favorite biblical heroes. Throughout the Psalms and through his mistakes and victories, he displays emotions I can embrace. And, whether he is dancing (half-naked!) or moaning that his heart has turned to wax, he displays a faith in God that surprises me. David made no bones about it—he needed God. God was his entire life, and he had no problem saying, “God, I’m your guy…so please come and help me!”
I have to admit, David’s brazen faith astounds me. It wasn’t that he was without sin (murder and adultery come immediately to mind). So where did this confidence come from?
His confidence comes from God’s unfailing love—which He proves to David, and to His chosen people. Psalm 22, verse 24, gives me hope that this confidence can be mine, also. “For He has not despised or disdained His afflicted one; He has not hidden His face from him but has listened to his cry for help.”
David didn’t deserve God’s love. He didn’t earn it. He simply needed it…and received it.
I wrote
In Sheep’s Clothing
in Russia, back in 1998 when we were missionaries there. At the time, I had four children under the age of seven, was homeschooling and lived on the ninth floor of a high-rise apartment that had water pressure only from midnight to 4:00 a.m. (Which meant I did my laundry and dishes in the middle of the night.) I had no telephone (no e-mail!), no car, and my husband worked over an hour away in a tiny village. I felt a little…um…overwhelmed.
I’ll never forget the day my husband came home, weariness and distress in his eyes. He told me a horrific tale of espionage and a KGB plant in the church where he’d been working. Right then, the seeds for
In Sheep’s Clothing
were sown, along with a deep grief over what the members of that church had suffered at the hands of their so-called pastor.
Also living in Russia at the time were two other missionaries. Not long after we moved there, they were murdered. This rocked my world. Here I was, “suffering” for the Gospel, and everything I’d counted on (namely, the safety of my family in this foreign land) seemed to crumble.
I was tired and afraid. And, like Gracie, or Vicktor, I had my own gaggle of “demons” whispering lies into my ears. Like “You were foolish to bring your children so far overseas.” Or “What do you hope to accomplish?”
Truly, I was in a place of need. What could I do to make my family safe and leave a lasting impression on my world, when it seemed that darkness stalked me on all sides?
Nothing—except trust the Lord. Writing this book became a catharsis for me. I learned, as Gracie and Vicktor do, that God’s favor (or His forgiveness) can’t be earned. It’s a gift. And in order to receive it, all I have to do is need Him. I learned that God was my strength when life felt too big, or too dark. And I learned that with God there is always hope.
That’s the secret David had. The belief that when he got on his knees and asked, God would provide.
God provided in so many ways as I wrote. I am deeply grateful for the support and encouragement of the following people:
Karen Solem—for finding a home for
In Sheep’s Clothing!
Thank you for your part in making this dream possible.
Krista Stroever and Joan Marlow Golan—for your enthusiasm and for believing in me. Krista, your letter (even without the stickers!) is one of my all-time favorites!
Constantine Utuzh—Now in Heaven. A man of conviction and passion, he made me realize how important small acts of kindness can be.
The Far East Russia CoMission teams from 1994-1998. (Especially the ladies!)—The friendships forged during these times made living in Russia a billion times easier.
Alexi and Cindy Kalinin—I can’t help but think of you when I read Gracie and Vicktor’s story. Your friendship is among my most cherished.
Ellen Tarver (and Daniel and Tom!)—Thank you for reading
In Sheep’s Clothing,
and later for saving me from being locked in my room all day. Your friendship is such a blessing.
David Lund—Thank you for reading
In Sheep’s Clothing,
and for believing in me even when I had my doubts. You’re such a blessing to me.
Andrew and my sweet children—For all those moments when I read aloud over dinner, or shooed you away with a death-glare, or talked plot endlessly…thank you for listening politely, for understanding and most of all for believing in my dreams. I’m so grateful for you.
I
f the train trudged any slower into the station, American missionary Gracie Benson would be dead by sunset. Five minutes. Twenty steps. Then she’d be safely aboard.
God obviously wasn’t on her side. Not today, at least.
Then again, He certainly didn’t owe her any favors. Not after her fruitless two years serving as a missionary in Russia.
Gracie purposely kept her gaze off heaven as she hunched her shoulders and pulled the woolly brown scarf over her forehead. Please,
please
let this Russian peasant guise work. The train huffed its last, then belched, and Gracie jumped.
Hold it together, Grace.
Long enough to fool the conductor, and find her berth on the train for Vladivostok. Then she could finally slam the compartment door on this horrific day—no, on this entire abysmal chapter of her life. So much for finding redemption as a missionary in Russia. She’d settle for getting out of the country alive.
She tensed, watching an elderly man dressed in the typical Russian garb of worn, fake leather jacket, wool pants and a
fraying beret gather his two canvas duffels and shuffle across the cement platform. Would he recognize her and scream, “Foreigner!” in the tongue that now drove fear into her bones?
Without a glance at her, he joined the throng of other passengers moving toward the forest-green passenger cars. A younger man, dressed mafia-style in a crisp black leather jacket and suit pants, fell in behind the old man. Gracie stiffened. Had he looked her way?
Help me, Lord!
Just because God wasn’t listening didn’t mean she couldn’t ask. The irony pricked her eyes with tears. This morning’s events had whittled down her list of trustworthy souls in Russia to a fine point. She’d give all the rubles in her pocket for someone like her cousin, Chet, FBI agent extraordinaire, to yank her out of this nightmare into safety.
Not that she should give any man a chance to introduce himself before decking him. She’d been down that road once. Never was too soon to trust another man within arm’s distance.
Gracie shuffled forward, in keeping with her disguise of tired village maiden. She clutched a worn nylon bag in one hand—her black satchel safely tucked inside—and fisted the folds of her headscarf with the other. As the smell of diesel fuel and dust soured the breathable air and cries of goodbye from well-wishing relatives, grief pooled in Gracie’s chest.
Poor Evelyn.
Biting it back, Gracie cast a furtive glance beyond the crowd and caught sight of a militia officer. The soldier, dressed in muddy green fatigues, an AK-47 hung over his shoulder like a fishing basket, leaned lazily against a cement column, paying her no mind.
Hope lit inside her. Freedom beckoned from the open train door.
Stepping up to the conductor, she handed the woman her wadded ticket. The conductor glared at her as she unfolded the slip of paper. Gracie dropped her gaze and acted servile, her heart in her throat.
Please, please.
The conductor paused only a moment before punching the ticket and moving aside.
The train resonated with age in the smell of hot vinyl and polished wood. The body odor of previous passengers clung to the walls, and grime crusted the edges of a brown linoleum floor. Gracie bumped along the narrow corridor until she found her compartment. She’d purchased a private berth with the intent of slamming the door, locking it from inside and not cracking it open until she reached Vladivostok. The U.S. Consulate, only ten minutes from the train station, meant safety and escape from the nightmare.
Escape from the memories. Surely Evelyn’s killer wouldn’t follow Gracie to America.
Tossing her satchel onto the lower bunk, Gracie untied the headscarf and shook out her shoulder-length damp hair. Blowing out a deep, shuddering breath she willed her pulse to its regular rhythm.
So maybe she’d been too hard on God. He
had
gotten her this far. Perhaps He hadn’t turned his back, completely, on Gracie Benson, a.k.a. foreign-missionary-flop-turned-fugitive.
Gracie grabbed the handle and began to roll the door shut.
A man’s black shoe jammed into the crack.
“No!” Grace stomped on it with her hiking boot. The assailant grunted and yanked his foot back. She threw all her weight into the door. “Get away!”
An arm snaked through the opening and slammed the door back, nearly ripping off Gracie’s hands. She stumbled back onto the bunk, fumbled for her bag.
How had he found her? “Get out!”
Gracie’s heart lodged in her throat. The man was huge. Dark eyes, knotted brow, muscles and menace in a tweed jacket, he stomped into her compartment.
She screamed and flung her bag at him with all her five-foot-two-inch, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound strength.
He sidestepped and caught it.
God, help me please, now.
Gracie scuttled to the farthest end of the berth. “Get out!”
He reached inside his jacket—for a knife? She kicked at him, panic blurring her vision, and pain stabbed her foot as she connected with his shin.
He winced. “Calm down!”
English? The accent still sounded Russian.
She jerked. Sucked in a breath. “Get away from me.” She hated the shakiness in her voice. What had happened to six months’ worth of self-defense classes?
“Are you Grace Benson?”
He knew her name.
Every muscle turned to liquid. She pushed against the far wall, vowing that this time it would be different. If he touched her, she’d go down bruised and kicking and clawing his eyes out.
“I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes.’”
Was that a smile on his face? She calculated the distance to the door.
Trample over him. Run!
“I’ve been searching all over for you,” he said, with a sigh of exasperation.
I’ll bet you have.
Had he taunted Evelyn before he slit her neck, too? Her breath left her.
His blue eyes glinted, as if in victory.
Where was the scream that filled her throat? Why, oh why, in times of terror, did she go into lockdown? She shot a glance into the hall.
Where was the conductor?
Her assailant turned and slammed the door closed, cutting off her escape.
Gracie went cold.
Oh God, this is it! Please help me!
She watched the man drag a hand through his hair as if contemplating her demise. Would he slit her throat? Or did he have different plans?
Not again.
She erupted like a woman possessed and dove at him. “Get away from me!”
He grabbed her forearms in an iron grip. “Stop it! Please. I’m not going to hurt you, trust me!”
She wrenched away from him. Fell back onto the bench seat. Her breath burned her lungs.
“Perestan!”
He shook his head as her roaring pulse filled her ears. “My name’s Vicktor. I’m with the KGB and I’m trying to help you.”