Girl of Vengeance Read online

  The Thompson Sisters

  A Song for Julia

  Falling Stars

  Just Remember to Breathe

  The Last Hour

  Rachel's Peril

  Girl of Lies

  Girl of Rage

  Girl of Vengeance

  America's Future

  Republic

  Insurgent

  Nocturne (with Andrea Randall)

  Prayer at Rumayla: A Novel of the Gulf War

  Saving the World on Thirty Dollars a Day

  for Amirah

  My Girl of Courage

  The Thompson Family

  Richard Thompson

  Adelina Ramos Thompson

  Julia Wilson (Thompson)

  — Crank Wilson

  Carrie Thompson-Sherman

  — Ray Sherman

  — Rachel Sherman

  Alexandra Paris (Thompson)

  — Dylan Paris

  Sarah Thompson

  Jessica Thompson

  Andrea Thompson

  The Wakhan File

  Prince Roshan al Saud

  Leslie Collins

  Mitch Filner

  Vasily Karatygin

  George-Phillip Patrick Nicholas, Duke of Kent

  Senator Chuck Rainsley

  Diplomatic Security

  John “Bear” Wyden

  Leah Simpson

  Scott Kelly

  The Washington Post

  Anthony Walker

  The Investigation

  Rory Armitage, Special Prosecutor

  Wolfram Schmidt, Internal Revenue Service

  Emma Smith, Internal Revenue Service

  In the silence of the room, the knock on the door startled Carrie and Sarah. Carrie jerked in her seat and looked up, just as a youngish looking doctor with slightly too long hair stuck his head in the room. Doctor Willis was older than he looked, and Carrie had as much confidence in him as she had in any doctor, which wasn’t much. Willis wore a white lab coat with a pocket protector, pens in several different colors poking out of the pocket.

  “Mrs. Sherman? May I come in?”

  The question was rhetorical, of course. She wasn’t going to stop him. A nurse or physician’s assistant accompanied him—Carrie didn’t know which. The nurse was in her thirties with severely cut blonde hair.

  Carrie gave him a weak smile and shifted in her seat. Her left hand rested beside Rachel in her baby carrier. Her right instinctively reached out and took Sarah’s hand. Sarah gave her an almost imperceptible squeeze.

  “We’re ready to begin prepping baby Rachel for the transfusion. But before we start, we need to take a moment to go over the procedure again.”

  Carrie nodded. She’d been over the procedure a thousand times in her dreams. She’d talked about it with the nurses and doctors, and gotten a second opinion, and when that one confirmed the bad news, she got a third opinion. The results were unequivocal—her daughter suffered from Thalassemia Major and would need regular blood transfusions for the rest of her life, which would be cut short unless she could find a bone marrow donor. Now, at six weeks old, they couldn’t delay her first transfusion any longer. Rachel was listless and pale; her eyes and skin had a slight yellow tinge.

  “Okay, in a few minutes the nurse-team will prepare her. You’ll be able to stay with her the whole time, of course.”

  “What about Sarah?” Carrie asked.

  “Of course she can stay. Now, we need to go over the risks again.”

  “I’m familiar with the risks,” Carrie said.

  “I know, but it’s the rules.”

  Carrie sighed and nodded. She’d spent far too much time in hospitals. She knew the drill. “Go ahead.”

  “Okay … so generally transfusions are one of the safest possible procedures. But there are some risks. First, of course, is the risk of infection. That’s substantially reduced by the fact that Sarah donated the blood.”

  Carrie squeezed her sister’s hand again. Sarah’s hands were soft, except the tips of her fingers. Those had heavy callouses from her many hours of guitar playing.

  “Our second risk is a hemolytic reaction, or allergic reaction. Transfusion reactions are rare in newborns, and Sarah’s blood is a good match, so it’s unlikely. But it is possible. We’ll introduce the blood slowly, so we can monitor her for side effects.”

  Carrie swallowed. “Okay.”

  “Those are the main short-term risks. And, as you know, we’ve gone over the long-term risks. Monthly transfusions will cause an iron buildup in her system. She’ll have to begin regular chelation therapy at a year to eighteen months old or risk organ failure.”

  “Right. Unless we can find a bone marrow donor.”

  The doctor nodded. “Which we’ll keep searching for.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, Carrie, you’ve had a hell of a time. I promise you we’ll do everything we can for Rachel. Okay?”

  Against her will, Carrie’s eyes watered. She hated not having control of her emotions, but ever since Ray’s death she’d been on the verge of tears half the time. Her stomach wrenched at the thought. Sometimes the ache of loss was just too much. She needed Ray here with her. She needed him. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and nodded, trying to keep control of her face and the watering of her eyes, but that didn’t work so she squeezed them shut.

  “It’s going to be okay.” A whisper. And for just a second she felt a hand on the side of her face, brushing along her jawbone. Her eyes jerked open, but the doctor was halfway across the room, and Sarah was answering a text message.

  She shook her head, confused and brushing off the disturbing feeling. Dr. Willis held out a clipboard.

  “Okay, Carrie, if you can sign here. This just acknowledges that I’ve walked you through the risks of the procedure. Nurse Reynolds?”

  The nurse said, “I’m to sign as a witness. Do you understand what the doctor just told you about the risks?”

  Carrie was irrationally irritated. She knew she had to sign. She knew the medical procedures. After all, she’d had to sign the papers allowing them to let her husband die. Shuddering, she took the papers and pen that Doctor Willis held out. She scrawled her signature on the document and said, “Yes. I understand.”

  “All right,” he said. “The nursing team will be in, in just a moment.” He took the clipboard back from her and walked out of the room.

  Fifteen very long seconds passed by, then Sarah said, “You all right? You looked like you saw a ghost.”

  Carrie sniffed, then reached over and unbuckled the straps holding her baby in the carrier. She lifted Rachel to her and snuggled her daughter. It was comforting. She didn’t have Ray, but she had a piece of him, the little girl he’d left behind. The little girl who Carrie would do anything for. She took a long shuddering breath then changed the subject. For right now, talking about Ray or Rachel was just too raw.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, nodding toward Sarah’s phone.

  “Alex just texted me and said turn on the news.”

  Carrie arched an eyebrow. They didn’t have a television in the exam room in the hospital. Sarah’s face was a little pale.

  “What is it?”

  Sarah handed her the phone. She was shaking.

  Carrie had to reread the headline three times before it made any sense.

  WIFE OF U.S. SECRETARY OF DEFENSE REQUESTS POLITICAL ASYLUM IN CANADA

  Cross-border shootout ends in hospitalization of 18-year-old daughter

  “Oh, my God,” Carrie said. “Political asylum? What?”

  “I have to go there,” Sarah said.

  “To Canada?” Carrie demanded.

  Sarah nodded. “If Jessica’s hurt, I’ve got to go to her.”

  C
arrie sighed. “Of course.” She paused a second, scanning through the article. It described how their mother had dragged Sarah’s unconscious twin across the international border even as a shooter was trying to kill them both. The shooter—the paper read ‘the alleged shooter’—had been captured by the Border Patrol two miles south of the incident following a high-speed chase. Jessica’s injuries weren’t described in the article.

  Unconsciously, she pulled her daughter a little closer to her.

  A single knock was followed by the door opening. Two people stepped into the room—nurses or physicians’ assistants. The first, a copper-haired woman, said, “Hello, and how is baby Rachel doing today?”

  She walked toward Carrie and reached to take the baby. Carrie pulled Rachel closer.

  The woman stopped and said, “Sorry—I’m Melissa, the NICU charge nurse. I’ll be supervising the procedure today. May I take the baby?”

  Carrie was uncomfortable and tense, but she nodded and held Rachel up an inch.

  Melissa, the nurse, took Rachel expertly from her hands and laid her in the plastic bassinet. Rachel’s arms and legs contracted and she let out a cry.

  “Oh, you’re such a sweetie,” the nurse said in a sing-song voice, scrunching up her nose. Rachel cooed. “I bet your mom and dad are so proud of you! I bet they are!”

  Rachel smiled up at the nurse, even as Carrie flinched.

  A second nurse entered the room. Expertly, the two of them began moving around Rachel, laying out towels and other equipment. The second nurse positioned a catheter next to a tiny needle, still in a sealed plastic wrap.

  Melissa said, “Get a 25 gauge, please.” She began to swaddle the baby, leaving her right arm out.

  The second nurse nodded. Melissa said, “This is Jodi. She’s one of our NICU nurses.”

  Jodi smiled and took out a needle, slightly smaller than the one she’d previously placed on the table. A set of tubes stretched across the room, and various kinds of equipment were lined up. Both women wore gloves.

  “Mom, we’re connecting monitors to watch her pulse and respiration and other vitals right now. Then we’ll start the lines. She’s going to cry a little bit at first, I don’t want you to panic.”

  Carrie nodded and squeezed Sarah’s hand again. She was breathing too quickly and closed her eyes for a second, trying to force calm.

  It wasn’t working. The second nurse, Jodi, held a pacifier with some liquid, and Rachel happily sucked on it as Melissa taped a board to Rachel’s arm and attached the various monitors and sensors. Then she wiped a brown fluid on Rachel’s upper arm.

  In a low voice, concentrating, Melissa said, “Start the line.”

  Jodi ripped open the plastic packaging on the smaller needle. Carefully, her face pinched in concentration, she pushed the needle into Rachel’s arm.

  Rachel let out a choked cry, then a full-throated scream. Carrie flinched as the baby began to struggle inside the swaddling as her face turned bright red. The screaming got louder and Jodi shook her head, just once, negatively.

  “Try again,” Melissa said, her voice quiet.

  Jodi nodded and pulled the needle back. Oh, God. She missed. Rachel’s mouth was wide open, screaming as loud as Carrie had ever heard her. She sniffed and squeezed Sarah’s hand tighter. But she refused to close her eyes or look away from her daughter. She was stronger than that. She’d watched helplessly as her husband drifted away into death. She could be there for her daughter.

  After preparing a new needle, Jodi pushed it in again as Melissa held Rachel down with one hand and dripped fluid from the pacifier with the other.

  “Got it,” she whispered. She expertly inserted the plastic catheter. Rachel screamed louder, and Carrie’s vision blurred as tears rolled down her face.

  Carrie struggled to hold back a sob.

  Jodi attached a tube to the catheter.

  “Ativan,” Melissa said. She looked up at Carrie. “Mom, that’s the pain killer. It will help pretty quickly.”

  Jodi inserted a hypodermic into the line. Rachel continued to cry, her tiny mouth and eyes wide open. Tears rolled down Carrie’s face, mirroring the one on her daughter’s.

  Damn it, why couldn’t you be here, Ray? For the millionth time, she cried out inside, Why?

  Dylan. May 4.

  Dylan Paris still felt a little woozy, a sharp pain stabbing his forehead as he walked between two Royal Marines. They wore sharp uniforms—form fitting navy blue suits with white belts, rank insignia on the shoulder just like U.S. Marines (though upside down to Dylan’s eyes), and white leather-brimmed officer’s caps with a red band. Unfamiliar insignia graced the collars and belts, and they wore medals on their chest rather than ribbons. Despite the finery, they wore serviceable sidearms, mean-looking Glock 17 pistols with a dull black finish. These guys were for real. And they were pissed.

  At Dylan.

  It was all right. He was alive, and by the fact that he was now being escorted into the Embassy for an interview with Prince George-Phillip, he guessed he’d successfully distracted the Marines long enough for Andrea to make it over the wall. His hands were zip-tied behind his back, and his head hurt, but he was pretty sure she’d made it.

  Mission accomplished.

  The Marines didn’t take him toward the main Embassy building, a modern three-story glass and brick structure which dominated the grounds. Instead, he followed them (or rather, was frogmarched in between them) toward the three-story brick building he recognized from the satellite photos as the VIP residence. His heart was pounding. What if Andrea was hurt?

  At the sound of a roaring engine, Dylan glanced over his shoulder. The fluorescent green Oldsmobile he’d bought from Mendoza now had a Royal Marine behind the wheel. It was moving into the Embassy compound. He turned back to their destination.

  The temperature dropped rapidly when they stepped into a large, dimly lit foyer inside the building. Dylan’s eyes scanned the room, noting the three other exits and the broad staircase, which circled around the left side of the room. The floors were highly polished and sported a twenty-foot wide Persian carpet, which probably cost more than Dylan’s lifetime income.

  The first Marine said, “Stay here,” and the second grabbed Dylan’s arm. The first then walked away, his heels clicking on the marble floor.

  That was the first chink in their armor. Real soldiers didn’t click their heels; they wore combat boots. Dylan continued to scan the room, noting escape routes along with more prosaic details like the crown molding. A moment later Clicking Heels came back down the hall and announced in stentorian tones, “His Highness The Prince will see you now.” The guards then took him by both arms and guided him down the hall to a scene that looked nothing like he expected.

  Prince George-Phillip he recognized instantly. For the one thing, the family resemblance was startling. He was at least six feet six inches—Ray Sherman’s height. Tall and lanky, with thick eyebrows and a hawk nose, but otherwise with facial features similar to both Carrie and Andrea. His eyes, deep blue-green, were watering slightly.

  “This is your accomplice, then?”

  Andrea, who stood several feet away, nodded. Beside her, a girl—maybe six or seven years old—stood holding Andrea’s hand. The girl looked just like Andrea. Then she spoke in a wary voice. “Yes.”

  “Remove the restraints, please,” the Prince said to the guards. “Please have Gertrude set up coffee and drinks and lunch. In the sunroom. Jane will be joining us—”

  One of the Marines spoke rapidly. “Your Highness, I must insist—”

  “You’ll insist on nothing. I realize their entry was unconventional, but here they are.” Without another word, Prince George-Phillip dismissed the Royal Marines and approached Dylan. “I’m George-Phillip. And you are?”

  “Dylan Paris, um … sir. I’m Andrea’s brother-in-law.”

  The heel clicker produced a pair of scissors and cut the zip tie. Dylan immediately brought his hands in front of him and rubbed his wrists. Then h
e shook the hand Prince George-Phillip extended.

  Andrea spoke immediately. “You acknowledge you’re my father, and you expect us to be able to just sit down for a cozy lunch?” Her voice was a high tension wire, ready to break at any moment.

  “No, Andrea. But I’d like a chance to get to know you and for you to get to know me.”

  Her expression remained blank, guarded. She nodded once. Dylan breathed a sigh of relief. He guessed he understood her hesitation. After sixteen years of being rejected by the person she thought was her father, it was no wonder she was gun shy about opening up to this remote man she’d never heard of until yesterday.

  “Dylan,” Andrea said. Her eyes were wide and her jaw was clenched as she spoke the words, and her vocal inflection strange. She was on the verge of hysteria. “Did you know I have another sister? Who I’ve never met? Jane, meet my friend Dylan.”

  Her eyes watered, and mouth closed, she released a low rumbling growl in the back of her throat in an effort to suppress her tears. George-Phillip looked at her aghast, as if he’d never seen a woman cry before and had no idea what to do.

  Maybe he didn’t. Dylan looked at him, met George-Phillip’s eyes, and then jerked his head toward Andrea, trying to mentally send the command, Hug her, damn it.

  Dylan didn’t know if George-Phillip got the message from his bad miming, or if his human instincts had suddenly clicked in, but regardless of the cause, the Prince moved toward Andrea with his arms out and a sympathetic expression on his face.

  “There, there,” George-Phillip said. He rested his hands on Andrea’s shoulders. “There’s no need to cry. This is one of the happiest moments of my life. I want it to be the same for you.”

  Andrea began to shake, violently, and she sobbed, unable to contain the tears. George-Phillip pulled her to him and put his arms around her. Andrea stayed still, arms at her sides, but she couldn’t contain her crying. She sobbed, loudly, the pent up terrible grief of a lifetime of hurt. George-Phillip murmured some meaningless sounds, and Jane put her arms around Andrea’s right leg.