Cruel Compassion: A dystopian thriller with a hint of romance (Insurrection Series Book 1)

by A. E. King

  “There’s tea and sandwiches in the library,” the headmistress says. “I can send a teacher to sit with you if you wish.” She clearly does not want to spare anyone to babysit me.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I assure her. I wave and smile to each of the children as they step through heavy metal doors and disappear from view. I try to pour enough care into each wave that it will last through the lonely days ahead. It’s all I can give. And I pray it will last long enough to make them believe that they are valuable.

  Since losing both my mother and brother to political assassinations, I know better than most the destructive power of loneliness.

  The headmistress is the last through the door, and she gives me a stern look, urging me into the library. My guard holds open the library door as the heavy metal door close and hear the lock click into place. I stand looking at it, wishing I could call the children back.

  “Hmm, hmm.” The officer clears his throat, and I walk into the library. The samovar sits on a small table next to a plate of meat, cheese, apple slices, and black bread. I pick up an apple slice and a piece of cheese, pairing the tart and smoky flavors, and take a bite before sitting down.

  I’m restless. If I’m being honest, it’s a restlessness that’s been building for the last few years. But this forced engagement has brought it to a head. It was easier to pretend that my influence with the Council was increasing before the marriage vote. It was impossible to ignore the fact that I never distributed in equal measure with what I collected in fundraising. But I thought if I kept working hard, they would turn the reins more fully over to me. And then I could actually do something to serve and protect our poor from the rampant corruption in our government.

  Instead, the reward for my efforts was to be proffered as a decorative prize awarded to Dimitri for his loyal service to the Council. And to add insult to injury, he didn’t even want me.

  “Will you pass me the basket please?” I need to shake these gloomy thoughts out of my mind. I open the cards and notes one at a time, trying to keep my melancholy at bay. They’re a mixture of stick figures and landscapes. One card has a thicker envelope than the rest. I break the seal and slide out the contents. It is a photograph of half-starved children standing in a row. They’re dirty, and one child has a bruise across her face, as though she’s been beaten. I look more closely at the card it slipped out of.

  Behind the door, it reads.

  I close the note quickly, forcing myself not to react.

  Behind the door? Is it suggesting that this picture came from this orphanage? Who left this note?

  “Agent Dobrev, did one of the teachers leave me a note?” I say, rifling through the cards as though wondering whether I misplaced something. Maybe he observed an adult adding to the pile.

  “No, Gospozha. Izvinitye.” He looks concerned now. He’s clearly worried about displeasing me. No, I correct myself, he’s probably worried about Dimitri hearing he displeased me.

  I glance toward the blinking light of the Peredacha and scan the room for the cameras. I open the photo again, careful not to let it be captured on camera. Children are lined up against a filthy wall. Dirty linens and trash are on the floors. The children’s clothes are soiled, and one of the girls clearly has a bruise across her face. The image fills me with injustice. Did someone observe one of the guards striking a child during deposits? I have to discover the source of this photo.

  As though it is divinely timed with my decision to involve myself, the blinking light of the Peredacha stops. I blink in shock. It’s not unheard of for a system to malfunction. But most often, it is purposely blocked. Someone wants me to see what’s going on behind the door.

  If the system is off, the only thing standing between me and finding out what’s truly happening behind that door is this agent. He’s new, and I don’t want to get him in trouble. I look around the room and spot the untouched food. I haven’t taken another bite because, to be honest, I feel a little nauseated after seeing the picture. And that gives me an idea.

  “Do you have sisters by chance, or a wife?” I ask my guard.

  “No, Gospozha.” He sounds confused by my question.

  “Well, I’m afraid this is going to be a little bit awkward.” I smile apologetically. “I’ve started my period, and don’t have anything with me. Would you ask one of the teachers if they have something?”

  His response is exactly what I had hoped for. Red-faced and unable to look me in the eyes, he mumbles something about being right back before hastily exiting the room.

  I move toward the door, still keeping an eye on the Peredacha in case it suddenly comes back on again. I peek into the hallway and see the guard disappear behind the heavy metal door. There are no blinking lights in the hall, either.

  I count to ten, wanting to make sure that I’m far enough behind him not to encounter him too soon.

  “It’s now or never, Yulia.” I take a deep breath and slide into the hallway, trying to be quiet without looking like I’m sneaking around. No one told me I couldn’t leave the room. But I strongly suspect no one wants me going through that door.

  It’s heavy, and I’m somewhat surprised when I find it unlocked.

  I push through and immediately feel like I opened the door to hell. The smell forces me to cover my nose to stop from retching. Soiled diapers, urine-soaked sheets, and something rotten have clearly not been managed in months. It is more pungent than anything I’ve smelled before.

  I follow the sound of cries through grey halls with dingy lighting. The hopeless, weak little moans tell a story of neglect and force me to steady myself against the wall. There is no expectation of response behind their cries.

  I hurry down the hall, looking into rooms, and see babies crying in cribs with no adults around. The smell of soiled diapers is even more intense. I pick up my pace, jogging toward the next room. Toddlers play on their beds with shackles tied around their ankles to keep them from wandering.

  The next room contains more toddlers and more chains. Another room is so full of young children that they barely have room to move, herded in like cattle being prepared for transport.

  I don’t understand. How is this place so deplorable? I know how much money we’re receiving from donors. Where is it going? Where are the happy, clean, well-fed children I saw moments ago?

  Anger, red hot and blinding, takes over all rationality. I will ensure every teacher at this orphanage is replaced by the end of the day. I will personally stay here to bathe these children and sit with them while they receive medical treatment. I will make this right. I have to make this right.

  I hear adult voices at the end of the hall, and I jog as quickly as I can in their direction. Curse these heels and this stupid skirt.

  When I find those responsible, they will pay for this neglect. I will see them in jail. I burst through the metal doors and have to fight to keep standing.

  I feel as though I’ve been hit. Impossibly, an even greater horror robs me of words, breath, and movement.

  Children as young as five and as old as teenagers are lined up against the walls as filthy men inspect them and say, “I’ll take this one.”

  “No!” I find my voice, hoarse and anguished. “Get your hands off those children!” I run to the first man I can reach, pushing him as hard as I can.

  He stumbles backward and pulls a gun out of his belt, pointing it straight at my head.

  “Stop!” Dimitri’s deep voice commands as he rushes to place himself between me and the gun. “Put your gun away, you fool. Look who it’s pointed at.”

  It’s the skeletal man from the press conference. Up close, he’s younger than I had imagined. He has the look of someone who has ravaged his body in search of his next escape. He spews a string of angry profanities before yelling, “We’ve paid millions for this shipment. I’ll shoot anyone that gets in the way of this deal.”

  “NO!” I shout again, emboldened by Dimitri at my side. I’m shocked that this man would threaten me. I lunge
at him, wanting to scratch out his beady eyes. “You won’t leave here with a single child.”

  Dimitri wraps his arms around me to pull me away from the man, away from danger.

  “I’m fine,” I place my hands on his chest, trying to reassure him and borrow some of the strength I feel having him here next to me. “We have to take care of the children,” I instruct. “Call my father. Bring your men in. We have to stop this now.”

  The room erupts in laughter. An older man taunts, “Dimitri, this is why you never bring your women to a business meeting.” The room is full of catcalls and jeers. None of these men seem concerned that they’ve been discovered—except the skeletal-looking man.

  “What game are you playing, Dimitri? Prices and terms are set.” He glares at me, positioning his gun so it’s pointed directly at my head. “If you think this pretense is going to drive up the rate, you’re a fool. You know what’s riding on this deal. If it falls apart, I will be your biggest problem.” Spit flies from his lips as he yells. The laughter dies in the room.

  I turn my gaze from the man toward Dimitri as a horrible realization comes to me.

  He sees the moment I understand that this is his meeting. He binds my arms against my sides before I can attack him and all the rest of them.

  Chapter 3

  “Put her in the storage room!” Dimitri calls to his men. I feel like I’m looking at a stranger rather than my childhood friend. Who is this man?

  I have to get to my father or at least the cameras, where someone can see me. My father is many evil things, but he would never condone child trafficking.

  A large hand grabs my arm. I pull away, and the younger officer looks in vain for an appropriate place to grab me. He has clearly never touched a woman, much less restrained one. I take advantage of his youthful awkwardness and run toward the door.

  Before I can reach it, a much older and heavier guard tackles me from behind. I hit the ground hard and feel pain in my knee caps and wrists. He grabs me around the middle, and I swing my head back to connect with his. He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls hard. I cry out in pain.

  “Easy!” Dimitri yells, and the man loosens his grip. The younger guard wraps his arms around my midsection, pinning my arms against my sides. “I swear on my life that if you hurt her, you’ll be floating in the Baltic sea by tomorrow.”

  “My father will know of this, Dima.” His childhood name, the name of the boy I once loved, is the only weapon I possess. His lips tighten for a second, and I know I have hit a nerve. The guard silences me by placing his hand on my mouth.

  The skeleton laughs at my disgrace. “I’ll throw in an extra million for her.”

  The room erupts again, but Dimitri does not join in the laughter. He points his gun at the man’s head. “Shut your mouth, Kostya.” Icy silence replaces their mirth, and all eyes are trained on the two men. It’s like they’re waiting for the first shot that will start the battle. I use their moment of distraction to my advantage and bite the inexperienced guard’s hand so hard I taste blood. He screams, and his arms slacken just enough for me to attempt to run again. The older guard grabs me from behind. I scream and kick as they drag me out of the room, down a hall, and into a small storage closet.

  “Shut her up,” the older guard directs the younger.

  The younger guard looks at me more warily now that his hand is dripping crimson onto the floor. He pulls a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and forces it into my mouth. It smells like an armpit and tastes like sour salt. He holds my jaw to keep me from spitting it out as he looks around for what else he can use to restrain me.

  “Here.” The older man presses his weight against me and shifts so that one hand binds my wrists. He produces a bandana from his pocket and passes it to the bleeding guard, who ties it around my mouth.

  The guard secures my arms behind my back with zip ties, at which point his partner finally releases his hold on my wrist. Together they bind my legs and deposit me on the floor as though trying to decide what to do next. These men work for our government, for my father. They must know they’re committing a significant crime. Their sentences will be severe. I can’t understand why they don’t seem to care.

  I thrash my bound legs and manage to kick one of the men.

  The older one curses. “Go get a chair,” he orders the other guard, and we’re left alone as the door shuts us out of sight.

  The older guard forces his weight on me to keep me from wriggling. The entire time he’s inches from my face and looks me in the eyes. It’s an unnecessary show of strength that he’s no doubt been trained to exhibit.

  I pray that the younger officer will return. Was the order really instructing him to get a chair, or was it some sort of code that meant to leave?

  I look anywhere but at him, feeling his gaze on me as it travels down my neck. I feel vulnerable, exposed. After how easily this man forced me to the ground, I have no doubt he could do anything he wanted with me. Would Dimitri let him? Would Dimitri even care?

  I count to ten and then back down to one, trying to keep the fear in check. When the door opens, I almost sob as the tensión in my chest eases slightly.

  The older guard picks me up and drops me into the chair. I want his hands off me, so I don’t fight him.

  He ties me to the chair so tightly can barely breathe. Then both guards leave me, and all I can do is stare at the door, trying to comprehend the level of betrayal I have uncovered. I see the faces of those poor children, innocent victims of vile crimes perpetrated by a man I’ve known most of my life. Have I ever really known him at all?

  Chapter 4

  Has it been hours or minutes since I’ve been in this closet? My throat is raw from my initial attempts to scream, and my arms are chafed from my efforts to thrash myself loose. My hope for someone to intervene was a foolish reaction to this unthinkable evil.

  Now I’m still and silent. My guards probably congratulate themselves on my submission. But my mind has run a marathon in this forsaken closet.

  I lean my head against the back of the chair and look at the ceiling as I attempt to memorize every detail of the scene I witnessed earlier. How many children? One hundred? One of the girls had red hair. A little blond boy was crying. And how many men were there? Five? Maybe six? The skeleton’s face comes readily to mind. His sunken eyes. The yellow teeth. I would recognize him anywhere. What was his name? Kiril? Kolya? No, it was Kostya. I must hold onto that name.

  The only help I can offer those children now is a strong testimony that will aid in their quick recovery. The more I recall, and the faster I can get to my father, the sooner those children can be returned. That has to be my mission. Because I have failed them in every other way possible. All the money I raised for them. All the volunteer time. And this is what was going on? I’m sick to think of it. I run through the details again, looping them through my mind like a song played on repeat. Because each time I stop, my head fills with other thoughts that add to my devastation.

  On a deep, instinctual level I thought I knew Dimitri. After Sasha died, I thought that Dimitri was distant because he couldn’t process losing his best friend. I wondered where he went when his warm eyes turned cold and unfeeling. Now I know what happened to Dima. And it feels like another death to add to my list.

  The images of the past haunt me. Dima and I as children, sitting behind a couch as I held his hand while he cried over his dead parents. Then Dimitri selling children. Dima, Sasha, and I running through the woods, playing games for hours. Back to Dimitri selling children. Dima flirting with me when he came home from boarding school in the summer. Dimitri selling children. Our first kiss. The children. The images flow from one to the next, and I cannot reconcile the two.

  No matter how I look at it, I can’t find a single angle that exonerates Dima. That truth tastes more bitter than I could have ever imagined. Dimitri is among the vilest of criminals. And I will put a stop to this.

  “Did you hurt her?” I hear Dimitri slam a guard into the
wall outside my room. His voice is a menacing growl.

  “She’s fine,” answers the older guard.

  “She’d better be unharmed. Because no one harms my fiance. It only takes a second to pull this trigger,” he threatens, and I close my eyes, wanting to block out his atrocities.

  Perhaps Dimitri has enough blood on his hands for one day, because there is no gunshot. Instead, he bursts into the room, standing in the doorway to assess the situation. I lift my head slightly so he can see the accusation in my eyes. I want him to feel how much I despise him.

  His expression is unreadable. “Bring me a chair,” he orders the guards as he looks at me with his dark eyes, debating how he wants to proceed.

  Dimitri lets the door close behind him and circles around me, inspecting.

  “I see you got my note,” he says, his voice lowered to a whisper.

  My eyes grow wide with surprise. Dimitri sent the note?

  “I didn’t think you would believe me without seeing it,” Dimitri answers, much too calmly. Children are on their way to heaven-knows-where. And we’re here chatting like we’re discussing the weather.

  “Your reaction was a bit more dramatic than I had anticipated. You’ve caused a good deal of trouble today.” A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth like he’s teasing me. Does he think this is a joke?

  His voice rises in volume until I’m sure he’s loud enough to be heard through the door. “I can’t have you make another scene. You’ll just make it worse for everyone.” He gives me a warning look and pats his gun. What does that mean? Is he threatening to kill the children if I don’t behave? Is he threatening to kill me?

  “Take a deep breath. Then, if you can be calm and quiet, I will take off the gag.” When I don’t respond, he stands up and reaches behind my head to untie the filthy rag. His fingers brush gently across my hair, but it feels like a lie.

  “I want to speak to my father,” I demand. My tongue feels thick and dry.