Girl of Vengeance (46 page)

“Here we go,” Dylan said.

As they approached the doors, their security guards stepped inside. “This way, folks. This way!”

Out the revolving door they went. The crowd immediately pushed in toward them. Microphones shoved in their faces, reporters shouting and screaming. Their guards shoved the reporters back shouting, and Dylan joined in.

He yelled, “Give them some space!” while Julia called out, “No comment.”

The gunshot came out of nowhere. Dylan heard it, his instincts suddenly kicking in as he swiveled on his feet and ducked down, searching out the source of the noise. One of their two guards fell to the ground, a giant hole in his face, and the other one suddenly screamed and fell backward, hitting Dylan, who tried to get out of the way.

He felt his reconstructed leg twist under him and he slipped, feeling the ankle snap. Dylan let out a scream of rage.

The crowd scattered, men and women, reporters and others screaming. As they ran, they revealed Richard Thompson, who had grabbed Carrie and was holding her by the neck. Richard’s face was gaunt; dark circles under his eyes. He’d been awake for a long time. His face was unshaven, grey hair sprouting from his cheeks and neck. He had a pistol, a .45, trained on Adelina.

“I should have killed you long ago,” he muttered. “I never should have let you live, you fucking whore.”

“Let me
go!”
Carrie shouted, struggling.

“Shut up!” he shouted. He hit her with the butt of the pistol. “You aren’t even my daughter. I’ll kill you like a bug if you piss me off.”

Carrie’s eyes widened.

Dylan saw, running up the street, a tall man with dark hair. It was Prince George-Phillip. How did he know to come now? But he was too far away.

Julia strode forward, putting herself between her father and mother. In a low, cold voice, she said, “I am. I’m your daughter. And you’re never hurting my mother again.”

She reached out toward her disbelieving father and grasped the pistol, pulling it away from Carrie. “Now let her go,” Julia ordered.

Dylan tried to struggle to his feet, but the shooting pain that lit up his leg like lightning told him he’d snapped something.
Goddamn it!
George-Phillip couldn’t get here in time!

“Let her go,” Julia said.

“You were my most beloved,” Richard said. Almost casually, he let go of Carrie, who staggered away. His voice rose to a shout. “You were the one she hurt the most.
Her.
She’s the one who called you names, and treated you like dirt, and … she made your life miserable. Don’t you want vengeance? You can have it!”

“Father. It’s time to give up,” she said. “You’ve lost. It’s not time for vengeance. It’s time to forgive.”

“No. No. I can’t lose. I can’t. I won’t be a disgrace. I won’t be.” He took a step back then raised the gun. “Goodbye, Julia.”

Dylan and Julia screamed at the same instant, but no one could move fast enough.

Richard Thompson pulled the trigger.

“Have to let you off here, Your Highness. Street’s blocked off by the Federal Courthouse.”

George-Phillip leaned forward so he could see around the corner. The sidewalk and streets were packed with news vans and a large crowd of spectators and protesters.

“All right, then. Stay close. Go get a cup of coffee or something. I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished.”

The driver frowned. “Are you sure you want to get out here, Your Highness? That’s a serious crowd, and you’ve already been attacked—”

“That threat’s over. But thank you for your concern.”

Without another word, George-Phillip opened the back door of the SUV and stepped out. A taxi driver, trapped behind the SUV, was laying on his horn continuously. What a snarled mess. Cars everywhere, pedestrians, reporters spilling all over the place. It wouldn’t be surprising if he were mobbed by reporters—he’d been heavily profiled in that morning’s article in the
Post.
But the unlikeliness of finding a British Royal Duke walking along the sidewalk in downtown DC probably protected him from that.

He began walking toward the crowd.

The crowd surged, as if a giant had swept a fist against them, and suddenly there was screaming—lots of it. People were pushing from the entrance of the federal building, fighting against the crowd. George-Phillip began to run toward the front of the courthouse, and caught a glimpse of his worst nightmare.

George-Phillip’s eyes swept over the area even as he moved at a dead. What he saw was chaos. Richard Thompson, pistol in hand, holding Carrie by the throat. Julia reaching for him. Adelina rushing in his direction to protect her daughter. Dylan Paris was on the ground, his foot bent at an unbearable angle.

George-Phillip ran faster at the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, even as his brain tried to interpret what he was seeing. Richard had released Carrie, who spun away, and then he shouted words George-Phillip couldn’t make out over the screaming.

Richard raised his pistol, and George-Phillip shouted, “Stop!” as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger.

George-Phillip collided with Adelina, arms around her and knocked her to the ground as the shot went off. The screaming continued around him. He heard another shot, then several more. George-Phillip’s reddened gaze went to Richard, who twitched like a marionette once, twice, then fell face-first to the ground, blood blooming across his back.

“George-Phillip!” Adelina screamed, terror on her face. She sounded far away, and his side was beginning to hurt terribly.

“Hello, love,” he said. “I’ve missed you terribly. Are you all right?”

Then Carrie was at his side, and Julia was helping Dylan, and he heard sirens approaching.

They, too, sounded far, far away. But her sudden kisses on his face, her breath against his, was as close as his own soul. He closed his eyes, flooded by the warmth of home.

Former Defense Secretary Charged With Attempted Murder of Britain’s Prince George-Phillip

By Anthony Walker

Former Defense Secretary nominee Richard Thompson shot Great Britain’s Prince George-Phillip in front of hundreds of witnesses Monday after an altercation with Thompson’s wife and two of her daughters. Once US Ambassador to China and later Russia, Mister Thompson is under investigation for involvement in the delivery of chemical weapons to Afghan militia who used them on civilians. Additionally, his wife Adelina Thompson has accused the former Ambassador of raping her when she was sixteen years old. Thompson was shot by police after he fired on the Prince.

The shooting took place in front of Adelina Thompson and two of her daughters, Carrie Sherman and Julia Wilson. According to witnesses, Ambassador Thompson was attempting to murder his wife when Prince George-Phillip intervened.

The three women, with a brother-in-law, were taken with the Prince to Howard University Hospital Trauma Center. Ambassador Thompson was transported to George Washington University Hospital.

The embattled Ambassador faced Senate hearings only a week ago before the Senate Armed Services Committee, chaired by Senator Chuck Rainsley. During those hearings, it was revealed for the first time that Thompson was an active agent of the Central Intelligence Agency throughout his diplomatic career. Administration officials have refused to comment on Thompson’s intelligence background.

White House spokesperson Kelly Daniels told
The Washington Post
, “We were distressed to learn of the very disturbing charges against Ambassador Thompson. As soon as the nature of those charges was revealed, his nomination was withdrawn. This Administration will not tolerate corruption or criminal activity. We wish a speedy recovery to the Prince, and the President asked me to convey his personal admiration for the Prince’s heroism.”

Ambassador Thompson is expected to recover, sources at George Washington University Medical Center told the
P
ost
, but it is likely he will never regain the use of his legs. Prince George-Phillip is expected to fully recover.

Rory Armitage, Justice Department Special Prosecutor, said, “Richard Thompson just added attempted murder of his wife to the long list of charges he faces. This investigation continues.”

Accused co-conspirator and Deputy Director of Operations at CIA, Leslie Collins was murdered Monday morning while preparing to board a charter flight at Stafford Regional Airport. The pilot had registered a flight plan to Rio de Janeiro. Virginia State police are cooperating with the FBI to investigate the murder.

It was seventy-six degrees at eleven am when Carrie parked her black Suburban near Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery. The grass seemed to go on forever, as did the endless rows of gravestones. Near this section of the cemetery more than any other, cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes were parked. Carrie blinked back tears when she saw how many. You weren’t allowed to drive down the carefully maintained roads inside the cemetery unless you were a surviving spouse.

Carrie almost never used her military ID, which identified her as a widow of a soldier who died while on Active Duty. But the ID had allowed her onto the cemetery grounds, thus avoiding the busy public lots. She opened the door of the SUV and got out.

On the passenger side, Dylan was negotiating his way out of his seat. He’d been frustrated the last couple of weeks—a broken ankle had resulted in crutches and more physical therapy. But he and Alexandra had been able to return to New York in time to plead with Columbia to allow them to make up the missed time and exams. Alexandra got out of the backseat and slipped her hand around Dylan’s arm. It was the first time Carrie had ever seen Dylan wear his uniform. But today he was in his dress blues: his beret positioned on his head, the bright yellow Private First Class stripe on his arm, the blue braid around his right shoulder indicating his service in the infantry. Carrie recognized the Combat Infantryman’s Badge—Ray had worn the same badge—along with his Bronze Star and Purple Heart. He carried a wreath.

Carrie opened the passenger compartment door and unbuckled Rachel from her bulky car seat, then slipped the sleepy baby into a sling at her hip. Rachel nuzzled against her mother, then settled in the sling.

“When’s her next transfusion?” Dylan asked.

“Next week,” Carrie answered. “Although…”

She trailed off.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My father—George-Phillip—is having a blood test this week. There’s … you know … a possibility.”

He grunted. She was well aware how slim the odds were, especially since Andrea hadn’t been a match.

The three of them walked into section 60. Neither Dylan, nor Carrie, made it more than twenty feet into the grounds before tears were streaming down their faces. They walked down the row between the stones, barely seeing the other families, the mothers and fathers and widows who were making their own way, quietly, to their lost loved ones.

In every direction, as far as they could see, were the gravestones.

Carrie saw the names and the dates and struggled to maintain her composure. But Dylan had given up. Tears were streaming down his face and he sobbed once then bit it back savagely. Alexandra took his hand.

The names. The
names.
Carrie looked around them, staggered by the enormity of it.

Scott Johnson. Sergeant. United States Army. March 2, 1987. July 12, 2005. Silver Star. Purple Heart. Operation Enduring Freedom.

Julie McIntosh. SSGT. United States Marine Corps. October 12, 1979. June 7, 2004. Purple Heart. Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Every single name represented someone’s child, someone’s brother or sister, someone’s father or mother. Every single one represented a life cut short, a life ended with a period in a country halfway around the world. Every single stone was a broken heart.

Dylan continued to walk on his crutches, with Carrie holding one arm and Alexandra the other. Carrie couldn’t see clearly anymore, and didn’t even realize it when they arrived at their destination.

Raymond C. Sherman. SSGT. United States Army. April 13, 1986. August 19, 2013. Bronze Star. Purple Heart. Operation Enduring Freedom.

“I miss him,” Alexandra said. “I didn’t know him that well … not like you two did. But he was a good man. And a good friend.”

“Yeah,” Dylan whispered. He handed a crutch to Alexandra then knelt in front of them both, setting the wreath in front of his best friend’s grave. He whispered something—Carrie couldn’t quite make it out. Then he stuck out a fist—as if he were fist-bumping Ray—and said, “Miss you, bruh.”

Then Dylan came to his feet, clumsily, and saluted the grave.

Shit.
The tears were streaming down Carrie’s face, but she didn’t care. She said, “Do you guys—do you mind—I mean…”

“You need some time alone,” Dylan said. “It’s okay. You … you need it. We’ll be over near the car.”

Carrie hugged Dylan, hard, almost knocking him off his crutches. Rachel protested, but settled in when Carrie let go.

“Hey, don’t knock me down, woman.”

Carrie laughed. Then she looked Alexandra and Dylan in the eyes and nodded. The two of them walked away.