He loved Alex, and he would have done anything for her. But he’d slowly come to realize that she couldn’t fill that hole either. And so he’d begun drinking again. He knew it wouldn’t heal that raw wound. Nothing could do that. But it served as an anesthetic, for at least a little while.
Maybe his mother and Alex were right. But he didn’t see how he could do it. He’d had quite enough of shame and self-hate. An angry, vengeful God on top of that?
He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, barely illuminated from the hallway. In a day or two at most, maybe a week, he’d be out of here. He’d done nothing but defend his family, and once that sank in they would let him go.
Dylan was afraid of when that came. He was afraid of what he would do when he got out. Because for the last twenty-four hours since he was taken into custody outside the British Embassy, he’d thought far less about Alex than he had thought about getting his hands on a bottle.
Ray would be disgusted. He could almost imagine him, sitting across the cell from him, leaning forward, and saying, Get up, Paris. Your girl loves you and deserves better.
He was right. But Dylan didn’t know how he was going to do it on his own.
He couldn’t do it on his own.
So Dylan Paris groaned as he got out of the bed. And for the first time in his life, he got on his knees. The floor was cold, the concrete unforgiving, and his knees and ankles hurt, especially the one that had sustained such heavy injures in Afghanistan.
Dylan closed his eyes and whispered, “I don’t know what I’m doing here, but if you’re really out there, and you really give a shit, then I … need … help.” He began to shake. He felt a heaving in his stomach and the wound in his heart, the gaping hole felt exposed, naked. It felt dirty. It felt like shame.
“Please,” he whispered. Then he slid down to the floor, overwhelmed with grief, grief for his childhood, grief for the violence he’d witnessed in Afghanistan, but most of all, grief for Roberts and Weber and even Hicks and above all, grief for Ray Sherman. His best friend and confidante and the only person other than Alex he’d ever trusted.
In truth, he’d trusted Ray more than Alex. And as the pain washed over him, he found himself, for the first time, weeping for the loss of his friend.
Sarah. May 9.
Sarah Thompson sat in a chair next to the window of the hotel, looking out at Vancouver Harbor.
Initially they’d had some difficulty getting the suite. None of them had any credit cards except Andrea, who had a pocket full of pre-paid gift cards. After another attack, they didn’t want to be in a traceable location anyway. But after the credit card fiasco the immigration officer who had temporarily approved Adelina’s asylum request, Liam Tremblay, stepped in. The hotel opened its doors wide after that.
They were staying in a spacious suite, with a common living area and two bedrooms. Sarah and Andrea slept in one room, Jessica and Adelina in the other.
Now, as the sun slowly rose, the sky pink above the harbor, the buildings reflected in the water below, Sarah waited impatiently for Eddie to wake up and text her. He’d worked third shift the night before, so it would likely be some hours. It wasn’t even nine in the morning back in Washington.
While she waited, she scrolled on her phone, commenting on the Facebook and Instagram feeds of her friends from San Francisco; friends she’d effectively lost when the accident happened. Instead of going home for her senior year, she’d stayed on the East coast and home schooled. Even the homeschooling had fallen to the side when her mother went back to the West Coast after Christmas. Sarah didn’t know if she was going to graduate high school this year or not. She might have to go back and spend another year in school.
That was fine. She’d still stay in Bethesda. She was eighteen now, and her parents couldn’t say squat about it, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to leave Carrie behind. Or Eddie. If she had to go back to school she’d do it at Bethesda Chevy Chase, where Julia had gone her senior year, and maybe she’d kick some ass for her sister.
The opening, then closing of a door alerted Sarah.
It was her mother. Adelina Thompson walked out of the bedroom with a worn and sad expression on her face. She looked around, saw Sarah, and approached.
“Coffee’s made,” Sarah whispered.
Her mother did a detour, pouring herself a cup of coffee, then sat down in the chair next to Sarah.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” her mother said.
“Yeah. It is.”
They sat in silence for several minutes. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but for Sarah, it was a little weird. All her life, her mother had directed everything. Sit here. Stand there. Wear this. Play that instrument. Sometimes Sarah had resented her mother, raged against her. But that was all washed away when her mother sat in bed with her, holding her as Sarah cried out in savage pain from her knee to her shin, desperately waiting for the time to come when she could take her morphine again.
Sarah spoke first. “How is Jessica?”
“She’s recovering. The doctors were going to release her yesterday anyway, even if we hadn’t been attacked. She’ll always be at risk for another stroke, but … she’ll recover.”
Sarah ran her fingers through her hair and said, “No … I mean … how is she doing?”
Adelina smiled. “You always get to the heart of things, don’t you?”
Sarah shook her head. “Not always. I didn’t know anything was wrong with Jessica. I didn’t know … anything at all.”
Adelina reached over and took her daughter’s hand. “She’s doing better. In her heart. In her head. She hates me, but not as much as she hates herself. She’s grieving for her girlfriend. But she didn’t have a chance to properly grieve, because she was all alone.”
“I don’t think she hates you.”
Her mother grimaced. “That’s sweet of you to say, but it’s not true. It’s okay. I did my best to protect you all. I failed. But I did everything I could.”
“I know,” Sarah said. She squeezed her mother’s hand. “I know.”
Adelina’s eyes widened a little, and she blinked, hard.
Sarah spoke again. “What can I do? For her?”
The answer wasn’t what she had hoped for. “We pray. We love her. I’m going to accept the immunity offer. Saturday we’ll fly to Washington. Then we take her home and let her know how much she means to us.”
Sarah said, “I hate what he did to you. I hate him.”
Adelina whispered, “No. Don’t hate … if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have you.”
George-Phillip. May 9.
“But why do you have to go?” Jane asked. She was still in her Hello Kitty pajamas, eyes blurry from sleep. Adriana hovered near the door of the room. It was four in the morning, and George-Phillip was dressed in a badly fitting Royal Air Force flight suit.
“Because the Queen and Prime Minister have asked me to, and you don’t tell the Queen no,” George-Phillip replied. “I’ll be back by Sunday evening at the latest.”
“But I’m scared,” Jane said. Her face contorted. She was about to start crying.
George-Phillip kneeled beside Jane and put his arms around her. “Adriana will take good care of you. And so will Captain Forrester. I’ll be back very soon.”
“Can we go see my sisters soon?”
George-Phillip smiled. “Of course. I’ll speak with Carrie about it as soon as I get back to Washington.”
“Carrie’s sad about the baby.”
“She is. Rachel’s very sick and that makes her mother frightened.”
Jane pouted. “Can’t she get her some medicine?”
“Well, Rachel needs a special kind of medicine that comes from another person.”
Jane looked confused and skeptical. “Medicine comes from bottles.”
Adriana chuckled.
George-Phillip smiled. “Some medicine comes from bottles. But Rachel needs a bone marrow transplant. That’s something that comes from deep inside your
bones, and there aren’t many people who can give her what she needs.”
“Would they die? The people who give their bones?”
George-Phillip felt his eyes water. “No, Jane. They don’t give their bones, just part of the insides of them. They wouldn’t die. Jane, I really have to go.”
“I could give her some of my bones.”
He winced. “No, Jane, I don’t know about all that.” He looked at Adriana, then back at Jane. “I must go now. The plane will be waiting for me.”
He leaned close and kissed her on the forehead.
Thirty minutes later, he arrived at Joint Base Andrews just outside Washington, DC. The entire drive he fretted about Jane’s declaration. For one thing, it was unlikely that she was a donor match anyway. Rachel was his granddaughter, and Jane his daughter with another woman. They didn’t share much genetics.
On the other hand, George-Phillip would ensure he had himself tested as soon as he returned to Washington. The driver pulled to a stop at the gate and conferred with the US Air Force guard. Moments later they were moving again, following the careful directions of the guard.
He hadn’t wanted to make this flight at all. Certainly not without Jane. But he had little choice. He’d done the best he could to ensure her safety, including substantially increasing the security detail at the Embassy. Unlike the charter flight which he had previous taken to Washington—and the one which was shot down—this flight was being paid for out of public funds as a national security matter. The attempted assassination of the head of the Secret Intelligence Service was a security crisis. The fact that a foreign intelligence service had been responsible for that potentially made it an act of war.
As a result, the Prime Minister had called for an emergency cabinet meeting. He wanted George-Phillip there in person. A grim George-Phillip had extracted one concession—he would be flown back just as quickly as the trip over.
The car pulled to a stop in front of the main tower next to the runway. A military officer in fatigues stood there with a small escort. One of the men in the escort approached and opened the car door for George-Phillip. Fifty feet away, George-Phillip saw what was almost certainly his plane—a Tornado Air Defense Fighter, the long-range mainstay of the Royal Air Force.
“Prince George-Phillip? I’m General Hainey, US Air Force. I wanted to extend my welcome to Joint Base Andrews, I’m the base commander here.”
“A pleasure to meet you, General. You didn’t have to arise this early to meet me.”
The general smiled. “I’m always up this early, Your Highness. Let me walk you to the plane.”
“Of course.”
George-Phillip turned toward the aircraft and walked beside the Air Force general, who began speaking. “We’ve been running a continuous combat air patrol since your flight was shot down the other night, and the FBI is trying to track down who did it. In the meantime, I want to let you know how grateful we all are that you survived the crash.”
“Thank you,” George-Phillip replied.
They reached the aircraft. A crew was running through a series of checks, and the pilot approached.
“Your Highness? I’m Captain Warfield. You’ll be riding in the back here. Climb on up, we’re just finishing pre-flight checks.”
George-Phillip climbed the rickety ladder up to the top of the aircraft. He’d never been this close to one, and was surprised to find how large the aircraft was close up. He threw one leg over the side, then the other, and slid into the bucket seat. He started to puzzle out the tangle of straps.
“Here, Your Highness, let me help.”
Captain Warfield leaned over the side and attached the harness, then tightened the straps.
“Put your helmet on, sir, and we’ll get going. The oxygen mask is here.”
The captain showed George-Phillip how to get the helmet and oxygen mask adjusted then cautioned him not to touch any of the buttons in the back. “Those are the weapons systems, sir, so that would be a bad thing.”
“I wasn’t planning to, Captain.”
The pilot had the audacity to wink at him. “You never know with passengers, sir. Or civilians.”
George-Phillip grumbled, “I’ll thank you to remember that I was a Royal Marine.”
“You weren’t eligible for the Air Force? So sorry, sir, that must have been disappointing.” The pilot said the words in a deadpan voice as he dropped into the front seat and lowered the canopy. Before George-Phillip could think of an appropriate reply, the pilot said, “Have you ever flown in one of these, sir?”
George-Phillip coughed then said, “No.”
“Just hold on tight then, sir. It’s a little like flying with a jet up your arse.” With that, the twin engines fired up, starting with a low moan, then a loud screaming roar that vibrated the interior of the fighter. For just a second, George-Phillip felt some level of panic. He was going to cross the Atlantic in this?
It was too late. The pilot continued to monologue as they taxied to the runway. “The flight will be about two and a half hours sir, we’ll be traveling at a little over one thousand four hundred miles per hour, except during the mid-air refueling.”
George-Phillip swallowed. “Mid-air refueling?” He was familiar with the concept, but had never seen the execution.
“That’s right, sir. The yanks have a carrier group in the Atlantic right now, and they’re being right hospitable.”
With that, George-Phillip heard the words over the radio. “Royal Air Force One-oh-five, you are cleared for takeoff.”
“There we are, sir,” Captain Warfield said.
Then George-Phillip felt his entire body sinking into the thick padding in the bucket seat as the plane seemed to leap forward, the ground suddenly racing by beneath them. The plane bounced crazily on the tarmac until, fifteen seconds later, it left the ground.
“We’ll be going to altitude right quickly, sir. Just relax.”
The angle of the aircraft leaned further and further back, until it was almost climbing at a sixty degree angle from the earth. George-Phillip looked out. Already, the ground was far below, and ahead he could see the Atlantic Ocean. In three hours, he would be in London.
Dylan. May 9.
Dylan placed his hand on the glass and spread his fingers out. On the other side of the window, Alex did the same.
“I think they’re going to let me go soon,” he said. “The questioning—they can’t possibly believe I did anything wrong at this point.”
Alex sniffed and said, “I miss you, Dylan.”
“Hey … it’s gonna be fine. I promise. I won’t let you down.”
She smiled.
“Time!” The jail guard in the public area outside shouted the word.
Alex jerked a little, and a tear ran down her face. “I love you, Dylan.”
“Love you too,” he said.
She stood, then leaned forward and blew him a kiss. He gave her a wry smile.
After his breakdown the night before, he somehow felt better than he had in—months, really. He felt calm and at peace. And he knew what he had to do when he got out of here. He stretched and stood up to turn away from the seat.
“Paris, wait there. You’ve got another visitor.”
Another visitor?
He couldn’t imagine who it could be. Dylan had finally been allowed to call Alex that morning, but he hadn’t expected her to show up, and didn’t know the routines for visits yet. But she had made the trek to the FBI’s temporary holding facility in Greenbelt, Maryland to see him. She told him that the newspapers had somehow learned of his incarceration, and several confused news reports discussed his connection to the Thompson clan and what, if anything, he might be guilty of.
He sank back into the seat, wondering who the visitor could possibly be.
Dylan’s eyes widened when he got his answer.
He was five-nine and a half inches. Hair a little longer than was in style these days, and greying at the temples. His face was weathered from years of too mu
ch drinking and too much smoking, and his hands had the rough look of a manual laborer. His clothes were clean, but threadbare—either very old, or he had gotten them at a thrift store. A bushy mustache, shot with grey, hung over his upper lip like a big furry caterpillar.
He smiled uncomfortably, revealing a gap between two of his teeth. “Hey, Dylan.”
It was Larry Paris. Dylan’s father.
It took Dylan almost twenty seconds to croak out the words, “Hey, Dad … what are you doing here?”
“That ain’t the way to greet your dad, Dylan.”
Dylan started to stand, “I don’t know why you’re here.”
“Now wait one second—give me a chance, boy.”
Dylan paused. He felt rage like he hadn’t experienced since the night Randy Brewer had assaulted Alex. He took a deep breath. And another. His therapist at the VA had said over and over again, slow down your breathing and think before you react. He sighed, then turned and sat back down.
“What do you want, Dad? I haven’t seen or heard from you in almost ten years. Why are you here now?”
His father’s mustache twitched. He said, “I miss you, boy. I’ve missed you horribly. But I didn’t know where you was.”
Dylan said, “Bullshit. You never even sent a letter. You never called.”
“That’s cause your mother kicked me out. Look … Dylan. You’re my son. I’m sorry. I wish I’d gotten in touch. After your mom kicked me out, I was in jail for a while, and I’ve been knocking around for a bit. I’m working now, though, I got a job landscaping in Manassas. I’m trying to clean up my act. I ain’t had a drink in a year.”
Dylan snorted. He found that hard to believe. Visions of his father swept through his brain. Larry Paris had been a nasty drunk, a mean drunk. He’d casually and regularly hurt Dylan’s mom and sometimes Dylan. Jabs and twisted arms and slaps across the face weren’t uncommon in his home. Nor were the kind of words you couldn’t take back.
Girl of Vengeance Page 29
