Girl of Vengeance

  Richard raised his pistol, and George-Phillip shouted, “Stop!” as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  George-Phillip collided with Adelina, arms around her and knocked her to the ground as the shot went off. The screaming continued around him. He heard another shot, then several more. George-Phillip’s reddened gaze went to Richard, who twitched like a marionette once, twice, then fell face-first to the ground, blood blooming across his back.

  “George-Phillip!” Adelina screamed, terror on her face. She sounded far away, and his side was beginning to hurt terribly.

  “Hello, love,” he said. “I’ve missed you terribly. Are you all right?”

  Then Carrie was at his side, and Julia was helping Dylan, and he heard sirens approaching.

  They, too, sounded far, far away. But her sudden kisses on his face, her breath against his, was as close as his own soul. He closed his eyes, flooded by the warmth of home.

  The Washington Post. May 13, 2014.

  Former Defense Secretary Charged With Attempted Murder of Britain’s Prince George-Phillip

  By Anthony Walker

  Former Defense Secretary nominee Richard Thompson shot Great Britain’s Prince George-Phillip in front of hundreds of witnesses Monday after an altercation with Thompson’s wife and two of her daughters. Once US Ambassador to China and later Russia, Mister Thompson is under investigation for involvement in the delivery of chemical weapons to Afghan militia who used them on civilians. Additionally, his wife Adelina Thompson has accused the former Ambassador of raping her when she was sixteen years old. Thompson was shot by police after he fired on the Prince.

  The shooting took place in front of Adelina Thompson and two of her daughters, Carrie Sherman and Julia Wilson. According to witnesses, Ambassador Thompson was attempting to murder his wife when Prince George-Phillip intervened.

  The three women, with a brother-in-law, were taken with the Prince to Howard University Hospital Trauma Center. Ambassador Thompson was transported to George Washington University Hospital.

  The embattled Ambassador faced Senate hearings only a week ago before the Senate Armed Services Committee, chaired by Senator Chuck Rainsley. During those hearings, it was revealed for the first time that Thompson was an active agent of the Central Intelligence Agency throughout his diplomatic career. Administration officials have refused to comment on Thompson’s intelligence background.

  White House spokesperson Kelly Daniels told The Washington Post, “We were distressed to learn of the very disturbing charges against Ambassador Thompson. As soon as the nature of those charges was revealed, his nomination was withdrawn. This Administration will not tolerate corruption or criminal activity. We wish a speedy recovery to the Prince, and the President asked me to convey his personal admiration for the Prince’s heroism.”

  Ambassador Thompson is expected to recover, sources at George Washington University Medical Center told the Post, but it is likely he will never regain the use of his legs. Prince George-Phillip is expected to fully recover.

  Rory Armitage, Justice Department Special Prosecutor, said, “Richard Thompson just added attempted murder of his wife to the long list of charges he faces. This investigation continues.”

  Accused co-conspirator and Deputy Director of Operations at CIA, Leslie Collins was murdered Monday morning while preparing to board a charter flight at Stafford Regional Airport. The pilot had registered a flight plan to Rio de Janeiro. Virginia State police are cooperating with the FBI to investigate the murder.

  Carrie. May 26, 2014.

  It was seventy-six degrees at eleven am when Carrie parked her black Suburban near Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery. The grass seemed to go on forever, as did the endless rows of gravestones. Near this section of the cemetery more than any other, cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes were parked. Carrie blinked back tears when she saw how many. You weren’t allowed to drive down the carefully maintained roads inside the cemetery unless you were a surviving spouse.

  Carrie almost never used her military ID, which identified her as a widow of a soldier who died while on Active Duty. But the ID had allowed her onto the cemetery grounds, thus avoiding the busy public lots. She opened the door of the SUV and got out.

  On the passenger side, Dylan was negotiating his way out of his seat. He’d been frustrated the last couple of weeks—a broken ankle had resulted in crutches and more physical therapy. But he and Alexandra had been able to return to New York in time to plead with Columbia to allow them to make up the missed time and exams. Alexandra got out of the backseat and slipped her hand around Dylan’s arm. It was the first time Carrie had ever seen Dylan wear his uniform. But today he was in his dress blues: his beret positioned on his head, the bright yellow Private First Class stripe on his arm, the blue braid around his right shoulder indicating his service in the infantry. Carrie recognized the Combat Infantryman’s Badge—Ray had worn the same badge—along with his Bronze Star and Purple Heart. He carried a wreath.

  Carrie opened the passenger compartment door and unbuckled Rachel from her bulky car seat, then slipped the sleepy baby into a sling at her hip. Rachel nuzzled against her mother, then settled in the sling.

  “When’s her next transfusion?” Dylan asked.

  “Next week,” Carrie answered. “Although…”

  She trailed off.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “My father—George-Phillip—is having a blood test this week. There’s … you know … a possibility.”

  He grunted. She was well aware how slim the odds were, especially since Andrea hadn’t been a match.

  The three of them walked into section 60. Neither Dylan, nor Carrie, made it more than twenty feet into the grounds before tears were streaming down their faces. They walked down the row between the stones, barely seeing the other families, the mothers and fathers and widows who were making their own way, quietly, to their lost loved ones.

  In every direction, as far as they could see, were the gravestones.

  Carrie saw the names and the dates and struggled to maintain her composure. But Dylan had given up. Tears were streaming down his face and he sobbed once then bit it back savagely. Alexandra took his hand.

  The names. The names. Carrie looked around them, staggered by the enormity of it.

  Scott Johnson. Sergeant. United States Army. March 2, 1987. July 12, 2005. Silver Star. Purple Heart. Operation Enduring Freedom.

  Julie McIntosh. SSGT. United States Marine Corps. October 12, 1979. June 7, 2004. Purple Heart. Operation Iraqi Freedom.

  Every single name represented someone’s child, someone’s brother or sister, someone’s father or mother. Every single one represented a life cut short, a life ended with a period in a country halfway around the world. Every single stone was a broken heart.

  Dylan continued to walk on his crutches, with Carrie holding one arm and Alexandra the other. Carrie couldn’t see clearly anymore, and didn’t even realize it when they arrived at their destination.

  Raymond C. Sherman. SSGT. United States Army. April 13, 1986. August 19, 2013. Bronze Star. Purple Heart. Operation Enduring Freedom.

  “I miss him,” Alexandra said. “I didn’t know him that well … not like you two did. But he was a good man. And a good friend.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan whispered. He handed a crutch to Alexandra then knelt in front of them both, setting the wreath in front of his best friend’s grave. He whispered something—Carrie couldn’t quite make it out. Then he stuck out a fist—as if he were fist-bumping Ray—and said, “Miss you, bruh.”

  Then Dylan came to his feet, clumsily, and saluted the grave.

  Shit. The tears were streaming down Carrie’s face, but she didn’t care. She said, “Do you guys—do you mind—I mean…”

  “You need some time alone,” Dylan said. “It’s okay. You … you need it. We’ll be over near the car.”

  Carrie hugged Dylan, hard, almost knocking him off his crutches. Rachel protested, but settled in wh
en Carrie let go.

  “Hey, don’t knock me down, woman.”

  Carrie laughed. Then she looked Alexandra and Dylan in the eyes and nodded. The two of them walked away.

  She turned and knelt beside the stone, and rubbed her fingers along his name, feeling the engraved letters.

  “Hey babe,” she whispered. “I need to introduce you to someone.” Then she had to stop talking, because for a few moments all she could do was sob.

  “This is our daughter. Isn’t she beautiful? I’m sorry I couldn’t bring her here before. It’s just—it’s been a really hard time without you. Even harder than I would have thought.”

  She rocked back on her heels. “Rachel is sick, but I’m praying that we’ll find her a bone marrow donor soon. In the meantime, we’re watching out for her. I promised you I’d take care of our daughter, and I will. I sort of named her after you, you know. As close as I could get. You can’t name a girl Raymond, that would be weird.”

  She sniffed, hard. “You wouldn’t believe what’s gone on the last few weeks. Or maybe you would. Maybe you’ve been around paying attention. I don’t know. I have a new father, and … I don’t know if I can trust him. But I think maybe I can. He took a bullet for my mother—if that isn’t the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m going to try to get to know him, anyway. We’ll see. Mom’s … well … it’s a long story. But I think she’s going to be okay, and nothing in the world can make me happier.”

  She sniffed again, then muttered a curse, then took out a tissue and blew her nose, hard.

  Rachel giggled. A loud baby giggle.

  “What?” Carrie said. She blew her nose again.

  Rachel laughed, louder this time. Her blue eyes shone wide and her little mouth was wide open. Baby laughs were the best in the world. This was Rachel’s first.

  Carrie blew her nose again, making a loud honking sound. Rachel cried out in delight, her little fists waving in the air.

  “Do you see her, Ray? God, isn’t she beautiful?”

  He didn’t answer, of course. She looked at his grave, and said, “I know … I know somehow you can hear me. And I hope—I hope you can forgive me. No one can ever replace you Ray. No one. But … I need to move on. I’m going to—I need you to let me go too. Because Rachel’s going to need a dad.” As she said the last few words, they came out faster and higher pitched and desperate.

  She leaned close, her hands still rubbing the letters. She felt the smooth stone against her lips. “Baby, I’ll miss you forever. I’ll always, always love you. But I need to say goodbye now. I need to—I need to get on with my life, and with Rachel’s. I don’t know if anything’s there with Anthony, but it … it’s worth a try, don’t you think? I know you’d want me to be happy.”

  She paused, listening. She lay there for a long time, leaning against the grave. Then she said, “I love you, Ray. I’ll be back to visit, and I’ll bring Rachel back to visit. I hope … I hope…” She sighed. “I love you, babe.”

  She slowly came to her feet. She kissed her hand, then pressed it against the gravestone and walked away.

  Carrie. August 5, 2014.

  When the phone rang, Carrie Sherman was startled awake. She often fell asleep after breastfeeding Rachel, and today wasn’t much different. She was lying sideways on the couch, her feet up, Rachel lying in the sling on her chest. The baby slept peacefully.

  The phone rang again. Carrie reached over and picked it up off the coffee table.

  It was Doctor Gage. In a panic, she hit the accept button and put the phone to her ear.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Carrie? It’s Doctor Gage.”

  “Hi … is everything okay?”

  “Carrie, I’ve got news.”

  Carrie waited, her heart suddenly beating a thousand times a second.

  “Your father is a match, Carrie. We’ve got a donor.”

  The tears began running down Carrie’s face before she could say a word. Her eyes dropped to the baby peacefully sleeping across her chest, tiny fists bunched.

  “Carrie, are you there?”

  Joyful tears in her voice, Carrie said, “Yes. Yes. Thank you so much.”

  Rachel, the tiny baby who had no idea what had gone into this moment, slept peacefully. Just as she should. Carrie closed her eyes and sent a prayer up to heaven in thanks for protecting her daughter.

  Sarah. August 17, 2014.

  Sarah sighed and leaned back in her chair. Carrie was out of the house, thank God, as was her mom. Right now it was just Jessica and Sarah, sitting on the balcony, a desk of cards between them. The breeze was nice, at a few degrees above seventy, making it the nicest day they’d experienced in a while.

  Carrie had been restless that morning, fretting about Rachel’s upcoming bone marrow transplant.

  Prince George-Phillip was currently in London, but he would be flying to Washington next week for the painful bone marrow donation surgery. Sarah liked George-Phillip. She’d met him three times now, once at the Embassy, once at Blair House when the President had him stay as a guest there, and once for dinner at the condo. He was a funny man, and his ridiculous eyebrows made him even funnier. But his concern for his granddaughter was what won Sarah over.

  Sarah stared out over the city and her eyes misted over.

  “Do you remember how hot it was? Last year?”

  Jessica nodded. It was August 17th the prior year, when they were in a car on the way to the zoo, that a jeep bearing death had come barreling through the intersection and cut Ray Sherman’s life short and severely wounded Sarah. Indirectly, the accident had resulted in grave damage to Jessica as well.

  “Yeah,” Sarah said. “It was awful.”

  Jessica looked at Sarah and whispered, “I was awful to you. The year before the accident.”

  Sarah’s mouth twitch to the right. She didn’t say anything, except to slightly shake her head.

  “No, really. I shouldn’t have asked to change classes. We’ve been together all our lives. I should have talked to you.”

  Sarah closed her eyes, a cloud of emotion flooding through her. She whispered, “Why did you do it? I thought you hated me.”

  Jessica shook her head. “It was … I was always in your shadow, you know? I was Plain Jane. And you—you had everybody’s attention—from the time we were tiny kids. I was … jealous. I wanted to strike out on my own. I’m sorry.”

  Sarah swallowed. “Jessica … I love you … and… you have to know … I always felt that way about you. You were always Mom and Dad’s favorite I thought. You were going to be the only one to follow Dad into the Foreign Service.”

  “I think I’ll skip that now,” Jessica said.

  “True,” Sarah said. She felt bleak.

  “What are you going to do about school?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I didn’t finish. I was thinking about registering at BCC this year. They’ll still let me go back and finish my senior year. I checked.”

  Jessica swallowed. Her eyes looked huge. Sarah thought Jessica was about to cry. She said, “Do you think … I could come with you? Back to school? That we could finish together? We’d be class of 2015, I guess.”

  Sarah whispered, “I’d love that.”

  The Washington Post. September 20, 2015.

  Ambassador Richard Thompson Convicted of Murder Under the 1996 War Crimes Act

  By Bill Leiby

  Former Defense Secretary nominee and Ambassador Richard Thompson was convicted Friday of 223 counts of murder under the provisions of the 1996 War Crimes Act. Thompson was sentenced to 223 consecutive life sentences. Thompson was acquitted of multiple charges of assault and rape.

  The murder charges and life sentences were the result of a grand jury investigation last year which concluded that Thompson and Leslie Collins were primarily responsible for the acquisition of chemical weapons which were used in a village in remote Badakhshan province in the winter of 1982, resulting in the death of more than 200 civilians. Until last year, it was believed that
the Soviets were responsible for the massacre.

  The accusations of rape, along with the murder charges, were revealed in detail in the Pulitzer Prize winning series by Post reporter Anthony Walker last May. Collins was murdered the same day. His murder remains unsolved.

  The rape charges were brought by Thompson’s former wife, Adelina Ramos, who recently relocated to London with her youngest daughter, Andrea, who will be attending the exclusive Chelsea Independent College in preparation for University studies.

  Family spokesperson Julia Wilson said in an official statement, “Our father is a complicated and disturbed man. The family will not be commenting on his conviction or imprisonment, except to extend our heartfelt and abject remorse and apologies to the victims of his actions.”

  Andrea. London.

  “Mom!” Andrea called out as loud as she could when she entered the townhouse. Adelina had bought a stupidly expensive townhome in Chelsea—big enough that all of her daughters could visit when they wanted to. At one time or another they all had.

  Now the size worked against her. Andrea shouted again. “Mom! Mom!”

  She heard steps upstairs. Running. Adelina appeared at the top of the stairs, concern on her face. “Andrea, what is it?”

  “I got accepted!”

  Adelina screamed. “Oh my God!”

  Andrea met her halfway up the stairs and threw her arms around her mother.

  For the last nine months Andrea had been completing a final year of senior school to make up the deficiencies in her education. She didn’t realize she had any deficiencies until she’d applied for college at King’s College in London. The college had provisionally accepted her, but required her to take a year of preparatory school.