Authors: Charles Sheehan-Miles
Girl of Rage (37 page)
A male shout, then another thump, then he heard a scream. Then words he was stunned to hear, shouted down the hallway.
“I’m Prince George-Phillip’s daughter!”
Silence. It sounded as if they had the female intruder subdued.
I’m Prince George-Phillip’s daughter!
It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Step out of my way, please,” George-Phillip said to the guard.
“Your Highness, wait until the area is cleared—”
“You heard me,” George-Phillips said. He set Jane down, and said, “Stay back.” Then he pushed his way past the guard.
At the end of the hall, two security guards had wrestled a young woman to the floor. One kneeled on her back, preparing to tie her hands with plastic zip-ties.
She looked up at him with big blue-green eyes.
“Let her go,” George-Phillip said.
One of the security guards looked up at him, stunned.
“Let her go, right now,” he commanded.
Both guards stepped back. Slowly, Andrea Thompson came to her feet, her wary eyes on George-Phillip and Jane. She was mussed, a little bit of dirt on her face, her black and turquoise hair tangled from wrestling with the security guard. He thought about what he’d read about her. How she fought her way free when she was kidnapped, and somehow climbed down from a twentieth floor balcony when killers were after her. This young woman, his daughter, had far more internal resources than he could have ever imagined.
Thirty years of painful regret welled up in George-Phillip at that moment. Thirty years of regret that he’d not been able to protect Adelina, that he’d never known Carrie or Andrea, and that he’d never been a part of their lives. Worse, he saw all the pain and fear in her face. Fear that he would reject her, that she’d be alone, fear that he wouldn’t admit the truth. He felt his cheek suddenly twitching, his uncontrollable damned eyebrows working their own dance on his face, and then a tear ran down his cheek.
“Jane,” he said, his voice low, shaking. He motioned for her to come out into the hallway. “I’d like you to meet your sister. Her name is Andrea.”
Andrea’s eyes widened and began to water.
Jane clapped her hands together. “Sister!” she shouted. She stepped fully into the hallway and ran to Andrea, wrapping her arms around the sister she’d never met.
Dylan. May 4.
I thought the British didn’t carry guns.
Dylan’s brain was foggy. He hadn’t been driving that fast when he hit the gate, maybe 15 mph, but the sudden impact had still jolted him hard. The music was still blaring out of the speakers, THUMP THUMP THUMP, obscene lyrics, booty calls, talk dirty.
He shook his head and looked back up into the barrel of the pistol.
“Step OUT of the CAR!” shouted the man with the gun.
“WHAT?” Dylan shouted. “I can’t hear you!”
“Step out of the car
now!”
Dylan heard sirens in the distance. Lots of them. The music changed. Pitbull and Ke$ha. Timber. Yelling. Going down. Twerking.
What is all that noise?
Dylan reached out and turned the stereo off.
“No need to be so freaked out,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fuck up your gate—
”
“Get out!”
shouted the guard.
“Okay, okay, okay…” he said. He opened the car door and stepped out.
Immediately one of the guards slammed him up against the car. Dylan felt his ribs bruise. He didn’t resist as they pulled his arms behind him.
He felt his mouth curl up in a slight smile, remembering Alex muttering,
What is it with you and cops?
He needed to stall them and keep their attention for a few minutes, and give her some time to get into the residence. He didn’t know if she’d made it yet—probably not, it was too quick.
Slurring his words, he said, “Where’s Harry?”
“There’s no one named Harry here, you wretch—”
“What do you mean?” he asked, still slurring his words. “Captain Harry. Er … Captain Wales, I think they called him. I was in Afghanistan with him.”
Take that, motherfuckers. Actually, he’d never been anywhere near Prince Harry, though he’d been in Afghanistan at the same time, at least from what he’d read in the papers at the time. But this was a good time to stretch the truth.
“I didn’t mean to break your gate. He tol’ me to stop by. He said any time.”
The guards went into a huddle. Traffic on Massachusetts Avenue was at a complete stop now. Gawking drivers who were already slowed by the protest at the Japanese Embassy were now presented with even more of a spectacle with the fluorescent green Oldsmobile in the driveway of the British Embassy.
Good. Dylan was hoping this would all be sorted before the DC police arrived.
That’s when he heard one of their radios. Shouts.
“Intruder spotted entering the residence. Full alert. Full alert.”
The bad news was, that prompted the guards to knock Dylan straight to the ground. One of them kneeled on his back, his knee grinding into Dylan’s spine.
“Take it easy, bud, I’m not resisting,” he murmured.
Two extremely long minutes later, a radio call came. He heard an argument, but couldn’t see anything with his face pressed to the grass. It was getting itchy down here. He hoped he wasn’t going to jail again.
Then he heard a voice. “Let him up. We’ve got orders to let him in.”
“What?” one of the other guards said. “Bullshit.”
Mutters. More argument. Then he was hauled to his feet, and the guards were opening the gate.
“I’ll drive your … your … car … inside,” one of the guards said.
Their leader said, “Follow me, sir. You’re to be taken to see the Prince, God knows why.”
Dylan coughed, then composed himself. Unable to help himself, he winked at the security guard, and then followed him into the Embassy compound.
Adelina. May 4.
Adelina clutched the coat the police officer had lent her. It was cold, especially with the water and mud soaked through her clothes. The ambulance was so loud she couldn’t hear what the emergency medical technicians were saying. But it didn’t sound good. They’d run an IV and were checking Jessica’s vitals as the ambulance raced down the highway.
One of the EMTs leaned close to her and said, “We’re going to Abbotsford Regional Hospital.”
“What’s wrong with her? She wasn’t shot.”
“Ma’am, it looks like a stroke. How old is she?”
“Eighteen! She can’t have had a stroke.”
“There are good doctors at Abbotsford, they’ll do their best to help her. But I need to ask some questions, all right?”
Adelina nodded, clutching the coat.
“Is she doing any drugs? Or alcohol?”
“None right now. She just got out of a drug detox.”
The EMTs looked at each other, then back at her. “What was she using?”
“Alcohol. And … crystal meth.”
The EMT nodded. “That might explain the stroke. Is she taking any medication?”
“Ibuprofen. She’s had terrible headaches. And she’s eating enough for three people. I thought she was getting better!”
“She probably was. But your run across the border may have just been too much exertion. Meth can damage the blood vessels in the brain, unfortunately. How long have you two been on the run?”
Adelina sighed and thought back. Three days? Four? She couldn’t even remember. “A few days.”
The EMT nodded. “All right. An immigration officer will meet us at the hospital to discuss your asylum application. In the meantime, she’ll be getting the best care possible. I promise we’ll do our best.”
Adelina nodded, looking at her daughter. Jessica’s skin was grey, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. She was still awake and obviously frightened out of her wits.
Adelina didn’t know what was going to happen from here. But she knew no matter what, she was never going back to Richard. She’d do everything she could to protect her daughters. She’d find Andrea. And for Jessica, right now, all she could do was comfort her. She reached out and took Jessica’s hand.
Author's Note
When writing a work of political fiction, sometimes the parallels to real life are inescapable.
Ronald Reagan, Eugene Jackson, Henry Kissenger are all known historical personages. However, their roles in this story are completely fictional.
The Wakhan Corridor largely missed the violence of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, just as it has missed most of the violence of the current war in Afghanistan. However, the fighting has laster 35 years, more than a generation--first with the Soviets, then the Taliban, and finally the United States. Much of the violence I described was typical, including massacres of civilians. There was no use of chemical weapons as described in this book.
Events in the Falkland Islands and the bombing of the Marine barracks in Beirut, Lebanon took place pretty much as I described them here. But virtually all of the details are left out.
Prince George-Phillip obviously does not exist. Some other members of the Royal family mentioned in this story, such as Princess Alexandra, do. However, everything described about the royal family is fiction. The ABC affair, which George-Phillip describes, did happen, and was a public relations disaster for the British government at the time.
I know little about the operations of the State Department's Diplomatic Security Service. Where I couldn't find the information on Google I just made it up.
Readers will see
This book took a lot of help along the way to complete. I'll probably forget some people but I especially want to thank Lori Sabin for your fantastic editing, and Sally Bouley and Jackie Yeadon for your extensive assistance reading through the book.
Thanks to my beta readers: Tanya Hall, Kristen Teaff, Emma Corcoran, Kathy Baker, Wendy Wilken, Dimitra Fleissner, Laura Wilson, Bryan James, Michelle Kannan, Sarah Griffen, Amy Burt, Jennifer Mirabelli, Stacey Grice, Kirsten Papi, Beth Suit, Rita Jenkins Post, Kelly Moorhouse and Kirsty Lander. You guys looked at a lot of first draft material and have my everlasting gratitude.
To the baristas at The Thirsty Mind and Amherst Coffee, where I wrote the bulk of the book: you guys and gals are awesome.
Khalil and Amirah: thanks for putting up with your dad being distracted, overworked and sometimes addled. It's been one of the toughest years of your lives, and I'm proud of you both.
To my partner and love of my life, Andrea Randall: thank you for listening to my brainstorms and crazy ideas as I worked through this book. Living with another author means we understand each other, and it also means sometimes we're both in worlds of our own creation. But we always return home to each other. I love you.
Girl of Rage
Copyright 2014 Charles Sheehan-Miles.
v05192014
Edited by Lori Sabin
Cover and interior design by Charles Sheehan-Miles, based on original line art by illustrator Kynata.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is unintentional, with the exception of certain named historical characters.
Table of Contents