Amelia was what Jildiz wanted to be, needed to be: firm, committed, and courageous. At the moment, she felt none of those things. She was a mouse hiding behind a counter in an ever-darkening store. Amelia’s fear was apparent on her face but not in her actions. She entered a fray most people would have fled. Using just her automobile she battled three men with weapons, killing two of them and rescuing her. Jildiz doubted she would have thought to do what Amelia did for her.
If she were a jaded person, she might assume Amelia did all that to make Jildiz beholden to her, but at her most paranoid—a quality she possessed in large measure—she couldn’t bring herself to believe another woman would do all she did just to score . . . what did Americans call it? Brownie points. Yes, brownie points. If she and Amelia lived, she would have to ask what the origin of that phrase was.
Before Amelia left, she helped Jildiz select several medications to help with her asthma, should another respiratory crisis arise. They even found self-injecting adrenaline pens. She also gathered snacks from the public side of the counter. Nothing healthy but it would keep her going if Amelia took longer to get back than she estimated.
“You know what this makes you, don’t you,” Amelia said when she situated the materials around Jildiz’s “nest.”
“I am afraid to ask.”
“You and I are now official looters. Do you think your father can change the law for us?”
“I’m sure the extenuating circumstances will help. I will make sure the shops get paid for the damages.”
“Good. Also, I broke a nail so I’ll be billing for a full manicure.”
Jildiz said, “I’ll go with you.”
“Outstanding, I could go for a girls’ night out.” Amelia sounded too serious to be believed. She disappeared into the storage area and then returned. “In a larger pharmacy we might have found something more useful. The large pharmacies in the United States carry a little bit of everything. I’ve seen cameras and pocketknives. I’m more interested in the latter, but no such luck here. So . . .” She held up a ten-centimeter-long metal case. It was narrow and took only a moment for Jildiz to recognize it.
“A box cutter.”
“I’d prefer to leave with a 9mm Glock handgun, but the place seems to be fresh out.”
The tool had a silver metal slide. Amelia thumbed it up, extending a long, silver-gray blade.
“I couldn’t.”
“First, yes you could—can—and let’s pray you don’t have to, but if you do, I want you prepared.”
“Amelia—” Jildiz looked away. A moment later she felt a soft but strong hand cup her chin and lift.
“Look at me, Jildiz. You’ve seen riots in your country before. You’re an educated woman who follows world events. I know you saw the riots in Greece in 2011, and in Egypt, and a dozen other countries. You know how violent things can get. Normally smart people go stupid quick and do things they never dreamed they would. It happens over and over again all around the world. You have to be prepared to defend yourself.”
“I hate violence.”
“I’m not crazy about it either, but I know there are people who want to hurt others. It seems they’re roving the streets now. Add to that the fact someone tried to kidnap you. Well, we have to assume they’re searching for you right now. When I come back, I don’t want to find you missing or dead. Clear?”
“Yes, but—”
“Nope. No buts. You listen and you take to heart what I say. I don’t have time to repeat all of this. Okay?”
Jildiz nodded. In the darkening shop, she ran the scenarios Amelia gave her through her head.
AMELIA REMINDED HERSELF FOR the twentieth time that what she was doing was crazy, bizarre, against common sense. Had she just herself to protect, she would have done things differently, but Jildiz was blood kin to the president of the country. When I get out of this, I’m going to resign my commission, move to Hawaii, and paint seashells for tourists. “Or something,” she whispered.
The night seemed warmer than it should. Kyrgyzstan was a mountainous country with more than its fair share of snow in the winter. There should still be a cool breeze rolling off the peaks. Perhaps she felt warm from exertion. Or maybe it was the blanket of smoke overhead. Or maybe it was her imagination. It didn’t matter. What did matter was retracing her steps back to the car and avoiding human contact while she did.
Part of her wanted to seek help from others, but she didn’t know who to trust. Besides, the sane people left the area for safer digs. That left only the insane, the furious, and mixed in with them, an unknown number of bad guys.
Without Jildiz, Amelia made good time. She reached the restaurant faster than she thought possible. The place was closed and locked up. In a just world, she would believe that machine gun man had been arrested. Maybe he had, but she saw him shouting into a radio. Other goons had to be around.
She came to the back of the eatery and paused, looking and listening for sounds of danger. Not hearing any, she moved casually to the street, like a lost tourist. Her car, lifeless as a brick, was still in the street. Several of the buildings on the street had fresh graffiti in various colors. Some called for the overthrow of the government, a few demanded Uzbeks leave the country, and she saw several stylized A’s in a circle—the universal symbol of the anarchist movement. The street was littered with garbage. A breeze shoved bits of paper down the asphalt lane. “Lovely.”
She pulled a marker from her coat pocket, something she snagged from the stationery aisle of the pharmacy. After checking the street again to make certain she was alone, Amelia moved to the car. The bullet holes made it look like the carcass of some large animal shot by hunters. Leaning over the hood she drew a circle with the black marker on the silver surface. The action forced her to see her wounded hand. By gunshot standards it wasn’t much, but it hurt like the bullet took a finger off.
She kept at it. In the circle she drew an X. At the top of that she wrote a 2; at the right side she penned 1; and at the bottom an M. She stepped back and looked at the cryptic symbol. The X indicated she had been here, the 2 that there were two people evading capture, the M meant they were on the move. She then added a plus symbol with arrow heads on one end of the horizontal bars and one on the vertical. At the other end of the vertical she drew a small circle, at the end of the horizontal she penned a dark dot. If any civilian or local militia saw the symbol they might guess that it was pointing the direction they had run and follow the arrows. Those in the know would focus on the solid dot and go in the direction opposite that indicated by the arrows. Now she hoped someone had been sent for them.
She returned to the alley behind the restaurant and turned right—into the three young men. One seized her by the arm.
“Look, we caught a frightened rabbit.”
She judged the men to be in their early twenties. The one who held her arm wore dirty work clothes. She assumed construction. He was six foot two and at least 180 pounds. His two friends looked a year or two older and wore similar clothing. The man holding her arm pushed her back to one of the walls lining the alley. His breath smelled of cheap booze and bad gums. His friends laughed.
“What’s your name, girl?”
He spoke Russian. For some reason, lewd behavior seemed worse in Russian.
She didn’t answer so he took a handful of hair and pulled her close. “I think she likes me, boys. What do you think?”
They agreed.
CHAPTER 11
AMELIA’S MIND RACED, HER heart tried to punch its way out of her chest. She thought of her father. He was a protective man and when she reached junior high school age and boys started showing an interest in her, he became concerned. A gentleman by nature, he, for the first time, displayed a side she had not seen.
If you ever find yourself in trouble, you need to fight.
She had never he
ard her physician father use the word. He was always soft spoken, kind, never harsh. A small man, she never heard him raise his voice to her or her mother. The memory poured into her brain. His voice rose from the back of her head. “There is no such thing as a fair fight. Anything outside a boxing ring is uncontrolled and there are no rules. An attacker follows no rules; neither should you.”
She was too stunned to respond. He took a breath as if the conversation were causing him pain. “The best fight is a quick one. They begin it; you end it. To do that, you have to let loose the fury in you.”
“The fury?”
“There is a small gland on top of the kidney. It’s called the adrenal gland. Have you studied this in school yet?”
“No.”
“When a person is frightened or angry the gland floods your system with epinephrine—adrenaline. It makes you stronger, more aware, and increases your heart rate. Some people call it the ‘fight or flight’ factor.”
“Um, okay.”
“When you need it, it will be there. You have to let it loose and do what needs to be done.”
“What needs to be done, Dad?”
“Whatever it takes to get you out of the situation. Hurt the other person enough and they will leave you alone.”
“Is this like some kinda karate thing?” The conversation made her uncomfortable.
“No, although that might be a good idea.” He led her to the middle of the living room. “I’m going to show you a few things. I won’t hurt you.”
“Dad, really, this isn’t necessary.”
“It is for my peace of mind.”
The lesson was nothing like what she learned in the Army, but it did get her out of a couple of scrapes in high school. She had to press for an answer but he finally relented and told her of the one time he needed to become the very thing he hated. They were living in San Diego at the time as he finished up his internship at one of the Scripps hospitals.
“A carjacking attempt.” His gaze went distant. “You were just two at the time and in your car seat in the back of our sedan. Your mom was in the back with you. We stopped at a red light . . .”
She could tell the memory burned him from the inside out. They moved to the dining room table and she placed her small hand on his.
“I was tired. I had just come off a thirty-six-hour shift and all I wanted to do was get home and go to bed. If I hadn’t been so tired, I might have seen the man approaching. I didn’t.”
“What happened?”
To her surprise, he teared up. “A man with a gun pulled open my door, put the barrel . . . put the barrel to my head and told me to get out. I . . . you were in the back . . . your mom screamed. I put the car in park and did what I was told. The image of him driving away with you and Mom.” His hand began to shake. “I couldn’t let that happen.” He rubbed his eyes. “I still have nightmares.”
“What did you do?”
“A lot of it is a blur. I do my best not to remember.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“You have a right to know and it will drive my point home.” Deep inhalation. “He pushed me back and held the gun on me. Then he turned his attention to the car and leaned in. I think he was making sure I had left the keys in the ignition. Truth is, I don’t know what he was thinking. All I know was, he leaned into the car. I could see you in the back and your mother . . . oh, the fear on her face. Something in me gave way.”
“The adrenaline?”
“That was certainly there. I thought my heart was going to combust.”
“You hit him?”
“I kicked the car door closed—on his head. He screamed, swore, and pulled back. He still had the gun. The guy was twice my size. I didn’t think for a moment that I could wrestle the thing from him. I wouldn’t know what do with it if I could. The pain made him close his eyes for a moment. I knew I had to finish this as quickly as possible.”
“The best fight is a fast one.”
“Right. His eyes were closed but that would only last a second then he’d shoot me without thinking. I had no doubt about that. His eyes opened and he lowered his gun hand from his head. I punched him. In the neck. On the carotid artery. I hit him as hard as I could. I got lucky. It did exactly what I hoped it would. It sent a pulse of blood to his head. He swayed and I saw his eyes roll up. That’s when I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him away from the car and pushed him to the street. I’m ashamed to tell you what else went through my head but I ignored all that. You and Mom were my priority. I got back in the car and sped away.”
“How did you know to do that? I mean, how did you know to punch him there?”
“What? You don’t think your old man knows a few things?”
She remembered grinning. “No.”
“You’re right. You know as part of their training, doctors rotate through the various departments of the hospital. When I was working the emergency room someone brought a man in who had suffered a blow to the neck just like that. It caused a stroke.”
“Is that what happened to the attacker?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t want to know. Knowing won’t remove the trauma.” He leaned to his side and kissed her on the top of the head. “Remember what I said and let’s pray you never have to use it.”
It was the first time Amelia understood that, at times, violence was a necessary evil.
“PLEASE . . . please . . .” Amelia pleaded. “Don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me. Please don’t hurt me.”
“I like a woman who cooperates,” the large attacker said. His two companions laughed. “So who wants to go first?”
“Just one thing.” This time there was no pleading in her voice. She had only needed the man to relax for a moment. Her father’s simple lessons would not help her much in this situation but the philosophy behind did. Army training would do the rest.
As the man returned his gaze to her she drove the marker pen into his temple. The marker cap was too large and dull to pierce the skin but she delivered it with enough force to cause the skull, thinner at that point than any other place on the head, to release a satisfying crack.
He released her to seize his head. She pushed him back with just enough strength to make him backpedal three steps. She took a long step forward, raised a foot, and drove the heel of her black and white pump into the area just above his knee cap. She heard a snap. The big man screamed and reached for his leg. Before his hands had traveled half the necessary distance, Amelia threw a punch: a long, sweeping punch that carried all her weight. Her fist hit the side of the man’s neck just over the carotid artery. He collapsed like an empty bag.
A hand took her shoulder, but rather than resist she moved with it, turning to face one of the other men. Fury covered his face. Amelia erased it, shoving the marker into the man’s eye. His screams rolled down the alley, joining the loud groans and swearing of his big friend writhing on the alley’s asphalt.
She spun to face the third man, every muscle taut, every neuron firing, her fury in high gear.
The man ran.
Amelia turned to the first attacker. “That’s for Dad,” she said in English.
ANYONE LOOKING AT THE living room of J. J. and Dr. Tess Rand Bartley might be easily misled. On the wide coffee table, an object twice as old as her twenty-plus years, was an odd mixture of magazines: Foreign Policy, U.S. News and World Report, Time, Military Times, The Economist, and New Mommy. There were also issues of American Cyclist, Sports Illustrated, and Guns of the World. There was a well-worn Stephen Bly Western, and a thick tome titled The Cold War: Reagan the Early Years. Joining the clutter was a Christian devotional book by Pastor Adam Bridger. Some might assume the news and foreign policy publications belonged to J. J. but they’d be wrong. Those were her interests, that and the New
Mommy mag.
The apartment in Columbia, South Carolina, was close enough to Fort Jackson to suit J. J.’s needs but a nine-hour drive from her work at the War College in Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania. J. J. was often gone and so was she. They valued the time they had together. Fortunately, Tess only traveled to the War College a few times a month to teach a seminar or two.
She walked into the living room with a bowl of Special K in one hand, a cup of decaf coffee in the other. Having the apartment to herself allowed her to be as casual as she wished and she wished to be very casual. She set the coffee down and used the free hand to move the magazines.
She had been at Carlisle Barracks all week doing research, making the most of J. J.’s absence. Today would be different. She had a full schedule of nothing to do. She might read, or she might not; she might go to a tear-jerker movie, or perhaps not; she might nap or eat a chili dog. Having a day with no structure or plans was like a Christmas present.
She scooped a fresh load of cereal into her mouth and the phone rang. She glanced at the clock. Not quite eight o’clock. She snapped up the wireless phone. “Hewwo.” Milk dripped down her chin.
“Tess?”
She swallowed. “Yes. Sorry. I was eating.”
“Something healthy I hope.”
Tess looked at the cereal and the coffee. “Kinda healthy.”
“Kinda? Do I need to come over there and give you pregnancy lessons?”
“Too late, I’m already pregnant.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. I’m living within the guidelines the doctor gave me.” She glanced at the coffee again. She had cut way back. J. J. accused her of drinking coffee like a sailor. “Mostly.”
Lucy sighed. “Mostly?” Lucy Medina, a normally bubbly woman, was subdued. Having four children could do that. Tess heard two of her children squealing in the background.
“Are you okay, Lucy? You sound a little off. Kids got you down?”
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