In her mind’s eye, Vivian poured automatic fire out the window while she and Maria huddled shaking against the wall. Bullets rattled off the building like the loudest hailstorm she’d ever heard. The cook was screaming over the noise: Get out, girls! Run! Then her shoulders jerked and she crashed to the floor like a bloodied sack of meat.
Maria ran howling while Hannah cried for the woman who’d been so kind to her, who made a lot of a little merely by adding spices, who knew the secret of war cake, who’d told her to play because to each according to her need.
Vivian was gone now. Tomorrow, maybe all of them.
Hannah didn’t think she’d ever sleep again, but she did.
She dreamed of him.
The rebels stood silhouetted in the glare of truck headlights. Dad still sat behind the wheel of the wreck smoking on the side of the road.
A rebel returned from the car wearing a grin. He was a giant of a man whose armor and helmet made him look even bigger. “That your husband back there?”
“Yes,” Mom said in a tight voice.
“What’s left of him, anyway. What did he do for a living?”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“ACLU,” the giant said. “Got to make sure the moochers and flag burners get their rights.”
“He practiced corporate law.”
The man spat. “ACLU, I says.” He smiled at Hannah. “Your daughter is really pretty.”
Mom growled. “She’s ten years old.”
“So we understand each other then. Somebody here has to make a choice.”
“We need help.” She stared at the rebels with wild eyes. “Will nobody help us?”
The rebels stirred. They didn’t like this. Still, she had no takers.
Mom knelt and hugged Hannah. “You’ll be okay, honey.” She was crying. “I’ll be gone just for a little while. Don’t worry about me.”
“No,” Hannah cried. “Don’t leave me here.”
“Come on, lady,” the giant said. “I ain’t got all night.”
Mom gave Hannah a final reassuring smile that came out a grimace. The giant took her hand and pulled her weeping toward the wreck.
Alex was gone. Dad was dead. Mom had left her.
Hannah stood alone in the dark, crying.
Headlights flashed on the road. The men around her raised their rifles as a truck pulled off. More armed men spilled out.
One of them strode over and sized up Hannah with a glance. “What’s this?”
“Refugees, Sergeant.”
The man bent to look her in the eye. “I’m Mitch. What’s your name, little one?”
“H-Hannah.”
“War’s no place for little girls, Hannah. Where’s your mommy?”
Still blubbering, she pointed at the wreck.
Mitch sighed. “Come on. We’ll drop you somewhere safe along the way.”
“No! He’s in there with my mom.”
Understanding crossed the man’s face, leaving behind a mean scowl. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Sergeant, we don’t have time for this,” another soldier said.
Mitch hesitated. He gazed down the road, where his war waited for him.
Then he said, “Yeah, Tom, we do.”
He walked off into the dark. The car door opened. The giant roared in anger, which cut to the sound of a hand slapping meat.
Mitch reappeared, shoving the giant ahead of him. “Keep walking, asshole.”
The giant spat blood. “I don’t report to you.”
“All you boys, get back on the road. The colonel’s waiting. We’re taking Indy tomorrow.”
“You’re letting him go?” Hannah said.
“I’m fighting a war, kid. I can’t fight him too.”
The giant and his soldiers returned to their truck and sped away, the giant giving Mitch the finger until he disappeared in the darkness.
Hannah ran to the wreck. Her mother lay curled up in the back seat, clutching her stomach and moaning.
“She’s hurt!” she cried. “Help!”
“Mount up,” Mitch said.
She ran after him. “You can’t leave us. Please help my mom, she’s hurt!”
The soldier looked down at her. “You’re going to be okay, kid, but you have to be tough for a little while.”
“No. No.” She grabbed hold of his leg and clung. “Don’t go. He hurt her bad.”
He pried free of her grip. “We’re fighting a war.”
The truck roared away into the night, leaving her alone with the muffled sound of her mother wailing.
She awoke gasping and struggled against the arms that held her.
“It’s okay,” Maria said. “You’re okay.”
Her clenched body relaxed.
“It’s just a bad dream.” Her friend hugged her tight. “I got you.”
Hannah took a deep breath that forced air into her lungs. “I’m okay now.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No. No, I’m okay.”
Maria yawned. “Okay. Good night.”
Hannah lay awake in the dark and listened to her friend breathe. The gunfire had stopped. The oil lamps had gone out. The entire world slumbered around her.
Love or hate. For days, she’d wondered what the cause meant to her.
She now realized it was both.
Love for the Free Women, hate for the men who’d destroyed her family and her childhood. Love for her sisters, hate for the man who’d hurt her mother on the way to Indy and for the other man who’d ignored her pleas for help.
If she ever got her hands on a rifle again, she’d never give it back. She’d fight for what she loved against those she hated. The men who’d destroyed her world.
Next time, she’d shoot straight, and she wouldn’t miss.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Gabrielle’s alarm clock startled her awake with its grating buzz. She turned it off and went back to sleep.
When she woke again, bright daylight streamed through a gap in the curtains. The room was cold, though it was nothing she wasn’t already used to, growing up in Montreal. She checked the clock. Late morning, and still she had no interest in getting out of her warm bed.
Gabrielle had heard stories about humanitarian workers too long in the field. Chronic fatigue, post-traumatic stress. She put her own malaise down to simple exhaustion and a little homesickness. Her whirlwind tour of the city and harrowing visit to the rebels was catching up to her. She needed a break.
There were still things to do, always some report to satisfy the UN’s insatiable hunger for documentation, but nothing that prevented taking a day off. Gruber had her needs analysis, and he’d respond when it suited him. Aubrey had gotten her story about the child soldiers.
Aubrey’s decision to dissolve their partnership had hurt, but Gabrielle understood. They were a bad influence on each other. Aubrey made her reckless. She made Aubrey care.
She reached for her cell phone on the dresser. The hotel Wi-Fi was slow but working. Another batch of text messages from anxious family and friends had come through. She was tired of sending stock replies that she was okay, mostly because she wasn’t sure she was.
In her first eight days in Indy, she’d seen things that couldn’t be unseen. Things she’d take home with her. Her parents and friends watched the daily stream of horrific news. They knew America was devouring itself. But how could she ever explain to them what she’d already experienced in such a short time?
Percussive thuds outside. Snarl of rifle fire. A fierce battle raged less than two miles away from the warmth of her bed. The rebels wanted in.
She thumbed her stock reply to her parents, thinking, Forgive me, Mom, Dad. For her entire life, she’d been content to nestle under their protective wings. When she told them she was going to America to help the children, they were horrified. They’d tried to talk her out of it, but going was something she had to do. Now she thought of them with a dee
p sympathy.
Part of becoming an adult was realizing your parents were flawed human beings on their own journey. As she grew older, she appreciated their suffering. The terror of losing their only child, the miracle of finding her again, the constant worry it wasn’t real and fate would snatch her away. What had happened to her had also happened to them, and it had shaped them just as it had her.
Before she’d boarded her flight to Trenton, Dad hugged her one last time. Gabrielle told him not to worry. He said he wouldn’t. Then he’d laughed, because they both knew he would.
It was happening again now. Her texting she was okay. Them believing her and worrying anyway. Her not sure she was okay and feeling caught in a lie.
She missed them. She missed home. She couldn’t go back until she’d accomplished her mission, though. Something she had to do.
Her satellite phone rang. She snatched it up. “Justine.”
Gruber barked, “I am reading your e-mail. Your account of crossing the contact line. Which was a very foolish thing to do.”
“I wanted to help the reporter source her story about the use of child soldiers,” Gabrielle explained. “Get public opinion going our way.”
“You are young and idealistic. You have yet to learn the world is not on your shoulders. In fact, you do not matter.”
Anger burned in her chest. “It’ll matter when the newspaper—”
“You are not understanding,” he grated. “You do not matter. I do not matter. Systems matter. Your mission will be to put systems in place to address the problems you identify. Not try to solve them by yourself.”
“I saw a kid shot in the hip. I had to do something—”
“Stop talking. You are not helping by risking your life with reckless stunts. You can only help by doing what I tell you.”
She said nothing.
He let out a loud sigh. “Are you there?”
“If I say anything, you’ll just yell at me more.”
Gruber snorted. “Then you are capable of learning. I reviewed your needs analysis based on your contacts with your local NGOs and IDP centers.”
UN speak: NGOs were nongovernmental organizations such as the Red Cross, Amnesty International, and the Peace Office. IDPs were internally displaced people—people forced to flee their homes but still residing in their country. Refugees, though not in the legal sense.
“Things are bad here,” Gabrielle said.
“Obviously,” Gruber agreed. “I am approving a budget for you, drawing from CERF.” The Central Emergency Response Fund. “You are to build a team, develop a humanitarian action plan, and coordinate a network of NGOs to address the issues in your assessment.”
She grinned at this news. “Including the child soldiers.”
“Set up your network and let it do its work. Bring in additional NGOs such as Geneva Call as needed. If they have capacity, they can contact all armed groups and negotiate a Deed of Commitment to get them to stop using children.”
Gabrielle said, “That will be my top priority.”
“There are three hundred thousand children fighting around the world at any given time. Now there are more. Address it through the system. Do not go on a personal crusade.”
“Okay,” she lied. “And thank you. For the resource allocation.”
Gruber sighed again. “Gabrielle. If you take on the war’s problems as your own, it will grind you down. The process is slow and complex and tedious, but it is far more resilient than any one person. If you trust in it, it will produce results.”
“Okay,” she said again and meant it this time, though she took his advice with a grain of salt. The system hadn’t saved her all those years ago—a single man had. If a middle-aged dentist hadn’t taken a risk while filling up his gas tank on his way home from work, she’d be dead.
Instead, that one man had saved a child’s life.
A splash of gunfire. Gabrielle couldn’t tell if it was coming from outside her window or Gruber’s end. New York had its own share of fighting.
She added, “I really appreciate you giving me the green—”
“Right,” he grunted. “You are doing good work. Merry Christmas. Goodbye.”
Gruber terminated the call. Abrasive to the last, but she didn’t care. She bounded out of bed into the chilly room. Still exhausted and more than a little homesick, but eager to get to work.
Then she stopped and snatched up her phone.
Smiling, she texted her parents again. She didn’t tell them she was okay this time. This time, Gabrielle was able to tell them she was doing great, and for once, she really meant it.
THIRTY-NINE
The Free Women’s headquarters grew increasingly frantic as the rebels advanced behind a wall of devastating firepower. In a daze, Hannah gazed at it all from a great distance, as if reality had become a TV on in the background. She’d made five runs through smoke and gunfire this morning to deliver messages and supplies, and she was exhausted.
Kristy staggered into the house and handed over her message to Sabrina’s staff. Then she collapsed against the wall next to Hannah.
Hannah nestled against her friend’s arm. “You okay?”
Kristy hugged her knees and shivered. “I don’t like this anymore.”
“It can’t go on forever, right?” God, I hope it can’t.
“I want my mom. I really miss my mom.”
“I know. Me too.”
“The last time I saw her, I was really mean.” The girl bent her forehead until it touched her knees. “I’m so stupid.”
Hannah put her arm over Kristy’s shoulders. “No, you’re not.”
“Runner!” a fighter called out.
Hannah gave her a squeeze. “Everybody looks up to you, you know. Because you’re strong. I won’t let you down.”
Kristy straightened her shoulders and wiped her eyes. “I know you won’t.”
“I need a runner!”
Hannah hauled herself to her feet. “Volunteer.”
Sabrina studied a road map thumbtacked to the wall. The map revealed the front line, X’s and O’s countering each other like a runaway tic-tac-toe game. She erased and redrew an X. The warped front line had bent a little more, fluid but still unbroken. Beyond her, militia worked feverishly to prepare meals and make bombs in the kitchen.
“Give her the backpack,” the commander said.
A fighter helped Hannah get her arms through the loops. Bottles clinked inside. The pack’s weight settled against her back. It was heavy.
Sabrina pulled a grimy notepad from her hip pocket and scribbled. “Run this message and give them the pack.”
“Here, Hannah.” Another fighter was pointing at a spot on the map.
Hannah rubbed her eyes and committed the location to memory. Go out, turn right, then right again at the intersection… “I can do it.”
Sabrina tore out the sheet and handed it over. “I know you can, sister.”
Hannah threaded the shouting women and went outside. The sun was a pale disk behind a cloud of smoke. Several hours of daylight left.
She spotted Maria coming the other way and dashed ahead to wrap her friend in a hug.
“Hannah Banana!”
“Maria Macaroni.”
The girl fought to catch her breath. “We’re flanking them on Walnut.”
It was good news, though Hannah had no idea what it meant. She’d seen the big picture on the map back at HQ but hadn’t understood much of it.
Right now, she had to tell a unit to fall back across Pershing, and every second counted. “I have to go. I’m glad you’re my friend!”
Hannah raced down the street and paused to crouch as a mortar round whistled through the air and struck somebody’s backyard far behind the line. A rifle cracked nearby. She got up and kept going.
She reached the house and peered through the living room window to make sure the Free Women still held it. The militiawoman standing guard jumped at the sight of her. Hannah waved.
The fighter o
pened the door. “You runners are the unsung heroes. I’ll get the sergeant.” She turned and bawled, “Sheila!”
Still gasping from her run, Hannah went inside and shucked her pack. From where she stood, she had a clear view of the kitchen. Bullets had shattered the cabinetry, the wreckage covered in powdery white dust. A fighter knelt on the counter to shoot a few bursts through a small window over the sink. Shell casings clattered across the linoleum.
The woman ducked away as rounds thudded into the house. She caught sight of Hannah and smiled, her face blackened by soot.
Another fighter strode into the room. “What’s the word, sister?”
Hannah handed over the note.
Sheila crumpled it in her fist. “We’re bugging out.”
The sergeant pulled a Molotov cocktail from the backpack and thrust it in her ammo belt. It was a wine bottle filled with turpentine and a little dish soap. Once lit, the cloth wick turned the bottle into a bomb.
She removed a handful of energy bars next. A large plastic freezer bag bulging with bullets. Jars of gasoline worth a small fortune.
“Gather up anything that will burn,” Sheila said.
Hannah had seen them do this before. Scorched earth policy, Sabrina had called it. They were going to torch the house to cover their withdrawal. She reminded herself this scarred shell wasn’t a real home, not anymore.
A rifle banged upstairs.
The sergeant splashed the gasoline across kindling stacked against the baseboards. “That’s Grace. Go get her, Hannah. Tell her we’re bugging out.”
Hannah hustled up the stairs and found Grace Kim in a bedroom overlooking the house’s backyard. The sniper knelt with her rifle perched in a small hole blasted through the outer wall.
Grace recoiled. “Get down!”
Hannah threw herself to the floor as a machine gun pounded outside. The rounds tore into the room. Paint chips filled the air like confetti.
The gun shifted to a new target. The sniper pulled her up. “Are you okay?”
Hannah’s legs were shaking. “You’re bugging out.”
Grace helped her navigate the stairs. “I remember you. I hope you figured out what your cause is. Whatever it is, you’ll need it today.”
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