Then somebody painted a Venus symbol on their garage.
The women started to sing. Hannah didn’t know the song’s name, though she recognized it. Maria, Kristy, and the other girls joined in and raised their fists in what Hannah had learned was a salute, one that cried, Power to the people!
Hannah trotted until she caught up with Abigail. “Hi.”
“Namaste, sister,” the commander grunted.
“Are you okay?”
“My knees ain’t what they once were.”
“I can carry your pack if you want.”
“Everybody has to pull her weight. That’s how it works.” She chuckled. “‘I Am Woman.’”
“What?”
“The name of this song. I used to think it was a bit much, but hearing the girls sing it, it’s powerful. I have to admit, it makes a good revolutionary song.”
Hannah listened to the women sing and glanced at her forearm. Under the thick jacket sleeve, her Venus clenched its fist, now a symbol of power, not fear. It reminded her she was militia, Free Women for life.
She said, “Do you really think the fighting will end the war? Where we’re going?”
“If we break their line, I think it might end the siege.”
“What if the rebels surrender? What would happen to them?”
“No matter what, they’re still Americans,” Abigail said. “I’d like to think they’d just go home and let us live in peace. That we could work together to solve our problems.”
“Sabrina said they should be punished. She said there’s no going back after this, no living with them again. Not after what they’ve done.”
“I can see her point of view. They declared war on reality. They elected a maniac who almost broke the country. When he failed, they rose up and broke it themselves. You can’t reason with them, and they hate our guts.”
Hannah thought about it. “What if you knew one of them?”
“My ex-husband is fighting for them. Him I know all too well.”
“Why can’t both sides just talk to each other and work it out?”
“From the mouths of babes.”
“I don’t want to kill people. I don’t think I could.”
Abigail winced at the pain in her knees. “You’ve obviously never been through a divorce. The truth is I don’t want you to kill anybody either, sister.”
Hannah looked around for Grace Kim but didn’t see her in the marching throng. The sniper was off on her own again.
The women ended their song with a throaty cheer. The militia marched across the West Washington Bridge in an uplifted atmosphere. The White below had partly frozen over. Hannah heard banging in the distance, like somebody pounding a car with a hammer.
“That’s where we’re going,” Abigail said before Hannah could ask. “If the rebels try to hit us, you’ll work with HQ. You and the other kids will act as runners.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you know how to run?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the job. I write messages. You take them to the units. If they write a message for me, you run it back.”
“Like a postman,” Hannah said.
“A postal worker. That’s right.”
“That doesn’t sound hard.”
Abigail winked. “You have to run real fast. Think you can?”
Yeah, she knew how to run.
After the Venus symbol showed up on the garage door, they packed whatever they could fit in the car. Hannah whined and stalled until Dad yelled. Alex said he wasn’t going. It wasn’t fair, his life was here. He and Dad shouted at each other all the way to a truck stop crowded with honking cars stacked up in long lines to get gas. Police car lights strobed in the night.
Alex left to use the bathroom and didn’t come back. Dad stomped off in a dark fury. Two men traded punches at the pumps while their families struggled to pull them apart.
Cheering men in pickup trucks rode up to the station. They hopped down and pushed people out of the way so they could fill their tanks.
Hannah whimpered in the back seat. Mom tried to talk to her, but she didn’t hear it. She just wanted Dad and Alex back. She’d never been so scared in her life. They should keep running. This was a bad place.
The men in the pickups had guns.
“Dad,” she said with growing alarm.
“Don’t worry,” Mom said. “Your father—”
“Daddy,” she screamed. “I want my daddy! Where is Daddy?”
Gunshots, terrifying and loud. She jumped as if shocked by electric current. People were screaming and running.
“DADDY!”
Dad appeared next to the car and wrenched the door open. He flinched at another deafening burst of gunfire and threw himself into the seat. He sat pale and sweating.
“Where is Alex?” Mom said.
Dad didn’t answer.
“Harry! Where’s our son?”
He pounded the wheel with his fists. “Fuck!”
“Don’t be mad,” Hannah cried. “He’s okay. He’s okay, right?”
Dad stared back at her with wild eyes. He blinked as if just recognizing her. Then he turned back and twisted the key in the ignition. The car roared to life.
Mom opened her door. “I’m not leaving him—”
The car lurched, flinging her back in her seat. It careened around a fleeing couple before peeling out onto the road.
“They killed a deputy right in front of me,” Dad gasped. “It’s not safe.”
“Stop the fucking car, Harry!”
“Listen to me, Linda. SHUT UP. Please. I’m taking you and Hannah somewhere safe. There’s got to be a hotel or something up ahead. Once I get you there, I’ll go back for him.”
Mom was crying. “He’s our son.”
“I don’t like this,” Hannah bawled. “I want to go home.”
She turned in her seat. The truck stop and its flashing police lights dwindled into the darkness. Then she heard something she never had before.
Dad was sobbing.
“Let me get Hannah somewhere safe,” he said. “Please let me do that. Then I’ll find him. I’ll do whatever it takes. I swear—”
BOOM.
Flash of light and roar. Metal ripped through the car and cobwebbed the glass. Dad slumped against his seat belt as the car spun off the road.
“Hannah?” Abigail said. “You okay?”
“Dad tried.”
“Who? Your father?”
The car stopped spinning. The headlights illuminated a wall of dust. Dad turned smoking in his seat to paw the air in front of Hannah’s face, still trying to protect her.
“Are you okay, honey? You okay?”
“He really tried. It wasn’t fair!”
The woman touched her shoulder, which she accepted with a shudder. Then Abigail put her arm around her and pulled her close.
“You’re okay,” she said. “Whatever you’re reliving, it’s in the past. You’re safe now.”
They walked like that for a while, Hannah leaning against the woman’s warmth. Face half buried in her wool coat, she pretended this soldier was her mother. “I know how to run.”
Abigail gave her another squeeze. “That’s good.”
“I can run real fast.”
That’s all she’d been doing since she left her home in Sterling. One day, she’d stop, and she’d find enough strength to fight back.
“That’s the spirit,” Abigail said. “Remember, sweetie, they can hurt us, but if they don’t kill us, they only make us stronger.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Gabrielle called Wolfgang Gruber from her hotel room using her satellite phone. As UNICEF deputy executive director for North America, the German reported to Carol Lake, who ran the show in New York City.
“I do not know why you are calling when it is obvious I have no answers for you,” he said in his usual brusque manner, as if talking to her was a painful chore. “We have only just received your analysis.”
“I�
��m calling about something else. May I have a minute of your time?” He answered with a noncommittal grunt, which she took for a yes. “Have there been any violent incidents between UNICEF personnel and the rebels?”
“You must be more specific. Both sides claim to be fighting for the legal authority and consider the other to be rebels.”
“The forces that support the executive branch,” she clarified.
“Why are you asking this?”
“My understanding of my mission is to help all the people here, not just one side. I’d like to go out and talk to them today.”
“This is a bad idea,” Gruber said.
“Why?”
“It is not safe. Obviously.”
“A reporter is acting as my local guide,” Gabrielle said. “She has contacts. We were promised safe conduct.”
“You still have to drive across the contact line,” he said. “Not safe. If the executive faction wants our help, it will be done through proper channels. We would make the arrangements for you.”
“Have there been any incidents?”
“Yes. Is there anything else you wished to discuss?”
She didn’t. She ended the call, pulled on her coat, and went downstairs, where Aubrey waited in the car.
The reporter started the engine. “What did he say?”
“We’re good to go.”
Her mission was clear. Observe, evaluate. Then focus UN resources on helping as many children as possible. She’d begun to wonder how much UNICEF would be able to accomplish. If what Terry Allen and Dr. Walker had told her was true, a fraction of the supplies would end up reaching children in need. The militias and profiteers would take the rest. By feeding the militias, UN assistance might even prolong the conflict.
She believed what she’d heard. In Somalia, the UN hired local militias as bodyguards and distributors. The fighters drove around in Toyota pickups with .50-caliber machine guns welded onto the back. These trucks became known as technicals because the UN couldn’t put contract thugs on its books and instead called them technical assistance. The militias stole as much of the supplies as they could. She’d thought the Americans might be different, but they weren’t.
Gabrielle reminded herself that if even one child who might have died instead survived, then it was all worth it. In the final tally, UNICEF would do a lot of good here. But she saw an opportunity to make a more immediate impact.
The reporter wanted to write a story about the child soldiers but needed to confirm the rebels were also using them. Driving the car to the rebel lines was the best way to accomplish that. Aubrey had sounded guilty when she’d asked to use the car. Gabrielle agreed on the condition she come along too.
Gruber said there’d been incidents. The risks terrified her, but she couldn’t allow Aubrey to face them alone. She couldn’t live with herself if the reporter went out on her own and something terrible happened. Because Aubrey wasn’t using her to get a story. She was using Aubrey to get the word out about the use of child soldiers.
Gabrielle had prominently mentioned them in the needs analysis she’d sent to Gruber. This information would eventually be published in a UNICEF report on the conflict. Important officials would read the report and begin to act. But that would take a long time. Getting articles in the press would make a stronger and quicker impact. The public outcry would stimulate a stronger, more immediate response than UN officials skimming field reports. This phenomenon was well-known among relief workers, who called it the CNN Factor.
The car raced toward the West Washington Bridge. First, they’d touch base with the local Blue militia, which Aubrey’s contacts said was the Free Women, arriving to replace the Indy 300. Then they’d move on to the rebel line.
“I once knew a guy who’d do anything to avoid conflict,” Aubrey said. “He hated it. But if you messed with his kids, he’d tear your head off.”
“Oh?” said Gabrielle, wondering.
“You remind me of him.”
“What happened to him?”
“One of his kids died in a mortar strike. He fights for a militia now.”
“Are you still friends?”
“After Ian died, John turned into this guy whose whole life became conflict. If you disagreed with him about anything political, he saw you as the enemy. I felt for him and tried my best, but we parted ways. I’m a reporter. I don’t do propaganda.”
Gabrielle thought for a while and made a decision. “Can I tell you something that’s personal? Just between you and me? Can we do that?”
Aubrey considered. “Okay. Whatever you tell me, I won’t print.”
“I was in the news once. Twenty-one years ago.”
The reporter threw her a look. “What, when you were a toddler?”
“I was six.” Gabrielle took a deep breath. “I was abducted at a park. We drove out of the city with me in a booster in the back too scared to do anything.”
“Jesus,” Aubrey said.
The man drove west, every kilometer taking her farther from safety and everything she loved. She obeyed his instructions in mute terror, believing if she did, he wouldn’t hurt her.
At night, the man checked them into a motel. In bed, he lay next to her but otherwise didn’t molest her. She could hear him breathing in the dark, his large frame hot against her back and his alien smell in her nostrils.
For hours, she thought about slipping out from under his arm and running for help. She lay rigid, too terrified to move. He hadn’t hurt her yet, not physically. If he caught her trying to escape, he would.
“I was at an age where my biggest fear was a monster in the closet,” Gabrielle went on. “I would ask my mother to make sure the door was closed, or they’d get out. I had no idea the world was filled with monsters, and they wore human faces.”
Aubrey winced. “How did you escape? If you don’t mind sharing.”
“We stopped at a gas station in Ontario. The man went to the bathroom and told me to stay put. He had me pretty well trained by this point. He knew I’d stay. A man at the pumps smiled at me through the window. Help me, I told him. Not out loud. Just mouthing the words. His smile died on his face. I did it again, still too scared to say it out loud. Help me, please. I kept doing it.”
Men were shouting outside the car. Her abductor bolted toward the driver’s side. He’d take her far from here and then he’d hurt her for what she did. The other man cranked the door handle and banged on the window.
Get out, he yelled. If you need help, come out of there now.
“I jumped out as the man got in and drove away,” she said.
Strange how that was the one part she couldn’t remember. One moment, she was in the car giving up hope. The next she was outside and shaking like a leaf. It had almost made her believe in divine intervention, but it had been the work of a single man doing the right thing.
Either way, she’d come to believe she’d been saved for a reason. When the UN began staffing for the American war, it had been like another door opening. She’d considered it her calling. Her chance to pay it back.
“Did they catch him?”
“No. They never did.”
“Fuck,” Aubrey said. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“Ravi Patel. That’s the man who saved me. I kept in touch with him my whole life. He was a dentist. He died two years ago.”
“I don’t know what else to say, Gabrielle. Holy shit.”
“Anyway, now you have your answer. It’s not hard to figure out why I am the way I am. I’ve been to more therapy than you can imagine. One traumatic thing that can happen to you as a child can change your life. Change who you are and the person you were meant to be.”
“I’m really sorry, I mean it. If you ever want to talk…”
“I’m done talking.” Talking about it always soothed her, but Gabrielle had been talking as long as she could remember. “Now I want to do something.”
TWENTY-SIX
The Free Women arrived at the Living Spirit
Child Care Center with a cheer. The column dissolved as soldiers dropped supplies and milled about looking for orders.
Hannah looked up at her new home. Constructed of red brick, the daycare building stood massive and tall. A concrete and wrought-iron fence protected the courtyard.
Kristy admired it. “It’s a great spot for our headquarters.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes, trying to see it as the older girl did. “How do you know?”
“It’s set back from the street, see? And it’s got a fence. That makes it safer if any rebel shows up with a car bomb.”
Maria threw her pack to the ground next to Hannah’s. “But how do you know?”
“Sabrina told me.”
Alice nudged Hannah. “Kristy says you think you’re too good for us.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t sleep in our room.”
Maria grabbed Hannah’s hand. “Don’t listen to her. Come on, let’s bounce.”
The girls threaded the excited mob, darting around coats and rifles. They arrived panting at the building’s doors and went inside.
Hannah expected a real daycare filled with toys, paper and paints, and drawings left behind by the kids. Instead, they found a dark, cavernous space cluttered with garbage and shell casings. WELCOME TO HELL was graffitied on the wall.
“Yuck,” Maria said.
Sabrina walked in behind them. “They had it far worse than us.”
“Can we take a walk and look around the neighborhood?”
The fighter scanned the chaos. Soldiers milled around chatting and dropping boxes everywhere. The Indy 300 was supposed to be here so there’d be a smooth transition, but they’d apparently bugged out for the fighting in the north.
“Sure,” she said. “But don’t go too far.”
Maria grabbed Hannah’s hand again and yanked her back outside.
Abigail was talking to Grace Kim, who’d ranged ahead of the militia to make contact with the Indy 300. The other central committee members read from clipboards and called out instructions to a crowd of shouting women. As if imitating them, Kristy held court with the other girls.
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