Embattled

Embattled

  Darlene Jones

  Copyright © Darlene Jones 2011

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without express written permission of the author.

  All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN reserved

  For my family

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to:

  a most generous man, who also happens to be a natural teacher – Robert J. Sawyer,

  friend and writing partner extraordinaire, Anneli Purchase,

  the kind friends who were my first readers, Alida, Carole, Maria, Angie, and Rosalie,

  the talented Cheryl Perez for her cover design and formatting,

  and my wonderfully supportive and encouraging family.

  !!!!FREE DOWNLOAD!!!!

  Sign up for the author’s mailing list and receive book two, EMPOWERED free. www.darlenejonesauthor.com

  Prologue

  “But Yves, will she know what’s happening to her? Won’t she be terrified? What if she gets hurt? How will she cope with a double life?”

  Elspeth was asking too many questions and her no nonsense big sister tone demanded answers.

  Questions that mirrored my fears.

  I’d been ordered to find an agent and fix Earth. I’d found the woman and set to work, bouncing her from her everyday life to war zones, bouncing her from the safety of her family and friends to danger and fear, bouncing her back and forth and leaving her to puzzle it out on her own. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to make it easier for her.

  Chapter 1

  She turned her hands over and over. No sign of a wound. No pain. So, where had the blood come from?

  At the light tap on the open door, she clenched her hands on her lap under her desk. A head popped around the corner. “Hey, Boss.”

  “Nee saida?” What the…?

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

  “Uh … sorry Tom, nothing.”

  “Sue says can you take a call? Line two.”

  Touch the phone? She could feel the blood soaking through her skirt. “Ask Sue to take a message.”

  “O-kay.” Tom backed out the door.

  When she was sure he was gone, she wrapped her hands in wads of Kleenex and peered out the door. A couple of students chattered their way out of the general office, and Sue, hunched over her keyboard typing the message.

  She scooted to the staff bathroom, locked the door, stuffed the tissues into the garbage can, and looked in the mirror. Good Lord, her face and neck had little splatters of blood too. Tom couldn’t have been paying close attention or he would have seen them. She scrubbed until her skin felt raw.

  If there were specks of blood on her jacket they didn’t show. But the large blotch of blood on her gray skirt seemed to challenge her. Explain me! she could almost hear it say. She grabbed a towel from the staff kitchen and tucked it into the waistband of her skirt. If anyone asked, she’d say she’d been washing dishes.

  She slid back into her office and closed the door. At her desk she checked her hands. Clean, smooth, unmarred. She took a little mirror out of her purse to examine her face and found a few flecks of blood in her hair. She combed them out.

  Looking down, she grimaced and peeled the sticky mess of her bloody skirt away from her legs. I've got to get out of these clothes. “Sue,” she called. “I’ll be out of the office for a bit. Back as soon as I can.”

  Wait a sec. Anything urgent this afternoon? She turned to the computer to check her schedule. What she saw on the screen made her gasp. She grabbed the back of her chair to steady herself. A mass of red looked just like the blotch on her skirt. And swirls of jungle green... What the hell?

  *

  She struggled through the thick vegetation, swinging the machete awkwardly, working her way towards her destination. Vines wrapped themselves around her legs. She yanked at the long skirt of her dress to free herself. She swung the machete again, and pushed through the narrow opening she’d created, ignoring the thorns that scratched her bare arms and shoulders. “Suitably dressed, I am, I am.” A monstrous spider web blocked her passage. The machete cut through it easily enough, but remnants clung to her skin.

  Her heart pounded and caught in her throat with each pop of gunfire. “Oh Lord, what am I heading into?”

  She plunged on and burst into a clearing with a final swing of the machete that nearly toppled her. She pulled the heavy knife back, scraping her shin, but pushed ahead yelling, “Favór ida, stop! Stop!” She waved the unwieldy machete and forced her way between the combatants. Cries of rage rose from them. She watched the arching swing of machetes above her head, cringed, and waited for the killing blows. “Stop, Stop.” She yelled. The men dropped their weapons, fell back, and let her through.

  *

  Too damn antsy to go back to work, she paced her living room, poured a shot of whisky, choked as it went down, and paced again. She kept looking at her hands, expecting to see them covered in blood. Her shin burned from the scrape she had first noticed in the shower. Blood still seeped through the dressing.

  The television droned in the background. She caught fragments only … gunfire … screams … wails of grief … screech of vultures … extraordinary woman … la madame des miracles … natives are calling her … effected a miracle …. village … tribal leaders … debating … peace….

  She sank to the sofa. Could that have been me? She squeezed her eyes shut. The jungle battle replayed on her eyelids. That was her, madly waving the machete. She held her face in her hands, inhaled deeply, smelled blood, and felt the jungle close around her.

  “Oh, my God! What’s happening to me?”

  *

  Wednesday morning dawned clear and bright. The sun sparkling on the freshly fallen snow cheered her even as she dreaded heading out into the cold. She contemplated calling in sick. But what would that accomplish other than give her too much time in an empty house to think about yesterday? Best to keep busy. A snow shovel scraped the sidewalk. Jimmy’d do hers today. She’d return the favor next time. Better hustle, she’d need extra time for the car to warm up.

  “Hey, Boss.” Sue rapped on the open door.

  She jumped and looked at the clock. Eleven already and she’d accomplished nothing, other than brooding. “¿Qué pasa?”

  “What? Oh, that’s Spanish, right? You taking lessons or something?” Sue asked.

  She shook her head. “No-o-o.”

  “I need you to look at this.” Sue held budget documents in her hand. “I hate to interrupt. Looked like you were in deep thought.”

  “I guess I was.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. Would you believe I was in Guatemala? Walked boldly into a courtroom populated with more guns than people, more malice than the air could hold?

  The courtroom tension held her in its grip. A corrupt regime, an innocent on trial; a case he and his lawyer couldn’t possibly win. A trial she had won with a few words. And, no, she didn't speak Spanish.

  Sue cleared her throat. “Um, like I said, sorry to bug you, but there’s a problem here that you’re not going to like.”

  About to reach for the file, she held back. What if her hands were covered in blood again?

  “Leave it on the table, would you? I’ll get to it later.”

  She checked the minute Sue turned her back and let out a heavy sigh. Her hands were clean, thank God, but then the courtroom had been calm after she spoke. No gun shots, no fisticuffs; nothing to cause bloodshed.

  *

  After shoveling the walks that evening—would it ever stop snowing?—she flipped on the TV and heard her
favorite announcer say,

  “It is calm and peaceful as the citizens of Guatemala City sit in the soft warmth of the evening shade and tell and retell the story of la señora de los milagros. With Mendez’s release comes hope for resolution of complex political issues and a rosier future for their country.”

  Thursday she waited for it, the light-headedness and the sensation of lifting just a touch off the ground that had preceded her “trips” on Tuesday and Wednesday. As the routine of the day wore on, she became increasingly unsettled and when she climbed into bed that night it was with a feeling of great insult, as though someone important had slapped her in the face, or worse, walked on by looking directly at her without acknowledging her.

  She needn’t have worried. She hadn’t been forgotten. Friday brought another journey.

  *

  She inhaled sharply. “Oh, dear Lord.” The man’s loathing slammed into her with such force that her legs wobbled. Bearded, scruffy, angry, and armed, he stepped from behind the shell of a burned lorry. Her throat wrapped around the scream forming deep inside her.

  Spinda! The most fanatical of the terrorist groups. And there she stood, a woman alone in the street wearing that stupid dress again in this land of burqas. Too little material up top to protect her from thorns or spider webs. Or eyes. A long skirt almost to her ankles, perfect length to tangle in jungle vines or trip her when running. And running was what she needed to do, but she froze under the man’s glare.

  She tried to swallow. The dusty air caught in her throat. The stressed silence drummed in her ears, broken only by her short sharp breaths and his huffs of anger. Relax, she told herself. You survived the jungle battle; you didn’t get shot barging into the courtroom. You’ll be fine here too. Yeah, right.

  The man raised his arm, fingers coiled into a fist. He gestured and more men emerged from the shadows, slipping out from behind piles of rubble and the twisted metal of bombed vehicles. They fell in behind him. Thin, wiry men, faces hidden by their beards; only the slits of their eyes gleamed in the sunlight.

  Torsos criss-crossed with ammunition bands; they brandished their Mausers and Arisakas and Kalashnikovs which was somehow more threatening than if they had pointed the rifles directly at her. And just where had her knowledge of guns come from?

  Again the first man gestured. Fifty voices rose in feral shrieks that shattered the silence. She was the little mouse and the trap was straining to snap shut on her. They charged, rifles raised high above their heads, ready to bludgeon. She closed her eyes and cringed anticipating the first blows. Flecks of their spittle spattered her face as they came near.

  She opened her eyes to see an empty street. Scuffling from behind drew her attention. She turned and watched the Spinda stumbling to a stop. What the hell? They ran right past me?

  The men regained their footing; the leader raised his fist. They charged again. She lifted her hands, palms facing outward to stop them. She stood dumbfounded when they careened to a halt.

  The distinctive whirr and click of a camera broke the silence. She didn’t dare glance around to see where the sounds had come from.

  Slowly, she advanced toward the Spinda. “You.” She gestured to a youth. “Come here.”

  He was shorter than her, scrawny, even for a teen, with a shadow of a moustache on his upper lip. The stench of fear and sweat that emanated from him made her gag. She screwed up her nose and tried not to breathe too deeply. He trembled and tears escaped from the corners of his eyes.

  “Are there radio stations here?”

  “Oui, madame.”

  “Go then. Tell the reporters to be here at noon tomorrow.” She spoke more harshly than she had intended and the boy scrambled away.

  A stone landed near her left foot. Another ricocheted off her shoulder, but she felt no pain. “Shoot! Shoot!” someone yelled. She heard the soft scuffling of rifles raised to chins, pressed snugly against shoulders, and the short sharp clicks of safeties flipped to the off position. Fifty rifles aimed at her. A frigging firing squad. Would they offer a last cigarette?

  “Don’t move.” She lifted her hands again. They froze. Oh, Lord, help me. She looked up, but the bright sunlit sky had no answers for her.

  “You.” She addressed the man who had led the charge and now stood at the center of the group. A stocky man with cold eyes, his dark skin flushed, his lips pressed so tightly together that they were almost lost under his heavy beard and moustache. He glared defiantly, but made no move toward her.

  “Tell Mullah Mohammed to be here at noon tomorrow.” She paused, furrowed her brow wondering what to say next and abruptly the names were there. “Tell him to bring Mawlawi and Jamal and the tribal chiefs.”

  “Oui, madame.” He fled.

  She ordered the remaining men to tell every man, woman, and child to meet in this same square the next day. The moment she stopped talking the Spinda evaporated into the narrow streets.

  *

  A pile of rifles filled the staff washroom. She sucked in air and let it out in a great whoosh. “Dandy! Just dandy. Now that life is following me here.” She stared at the weapons. What would it feel like to hold a gun? To aim at someone? To pull the trigger? She bent to reach for one, but instead poked at the pile with her foot. One of the rifles tumbled onto her toes. “Ouch! That hurt.”

  A burst of laughter jolted her upright. She spun to face the door, and then relaxed at the sound of footsteps moving away. A quick glance back told her the rifles were gone. “Thank God.” She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

  “Oh, there you are.” Sue looked frantic. “He’s here! Waiting in your office.”

  “Mitoonam ke komaketoon konam?”

  “Huh? Boss, are you okay?

  Damn, she’d thought the words were just in her head. “Yes. Yes. Fine. Thank you, Sue.” She fluffed her hair and straightened her jacket. Satisfied that she looked presentable for the superintendent’s visit—no chalk on her clothes or hands. No blood either. She bolted to her office, seeking escape with the boss and her performance review.

  Chapter 2

  She stared into the vacant square dumbfounded. Why did everyone listen and obey? How did she know what to do and when? She looked around for something familiar, anything that would make her feel safe, but all she saw was the monotony of sand and brick and rusted metal. A dog whined, although there were no signs of animals, not even mice or rats. Another whine shivered up her spine with its melancholy.

  And then people crept out from behind buildings, from sunken doorways, from rooftops, daring to reveal themselves now that the square was empty. They advanced cautiously. She sympathized. It would be so hard to be brave in a world of Spinda. She saw a tall, skinny clean-shaven man in front of the others. European? A camera hung loosely in his hand.

  “Don’t be careless with that. Your pictures will be important if I accomplish the changes I intend.” As if she knew what she intended. But even as threads of despair assailed her, ideas were forming, coalescing, and building. Maybe she did know what to do? A thrill of joy ran through her.

  The man looked down at his camera as though astonished to see it there. It took him a split second to react and then he was snapping pictures again.

  She ignored him and spoke to the people standing in small clusters, alternately staring and then ducking their heads. She glanced down at her dress and tried to imagine what she must look like to them. No wonder they gaped, she thought, as her bare toes seemed to wink at her with complicity; so brazen you are in this flimsy dress. The few women, dark shadows shrouded in burqas, glided silently among the men and seemed the most reluctant to leave. That was good. She needed the women.

  She sank to the ground in a limp pile of flesh and rubbery bone, swearing under her breath, every damn four-letter word she knew. She grasped handfuls of dirt and grit and let it sift slowly through her fingers and felt a little less lost and forlorn with the assurance of touching something so basic. Dirt was dirt. Dirt was ho
me, part of a world she thought she knew. She dusted off her hands, the sting of broken fingernails barely registering.

  She tried to stand and the photographer was there, an arm around her waist, a hand on her shoulder propelling her urgently and none too gently to the meager shade of a nearby building. He propped her against the wall and guided her as she slid slowly to the ground. The rough bricks scraped her back, but she didn’t mind the discomfort. It made her feel connected; to what she wasn’t certain, but connected and not so lost and alone.

  “Voici, madame.”

  “Merci.” She accepted the man’s handkerchief, dried her tears, and blew her nose. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying. “I must look a mess.”

  “Oui.” He stared at her, mouth open. “What you did was … incroyable.” He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder as if to see if she was real. The warmth of his hand, the pressure of its weight made her feel real.

  “Who are you? How did you get here? Where did you come from? How do you know their languages? Mon Dieu, you stopped them. C’est incroyable. You stopped them! Comment? Comment est-ce que vous l’avez fait? How on earth did you do that?”

  Her stomach dropped. She couldn’t answer any of his questions. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Je ne sais pas.” Tears flooded down her face. She pressed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  The Frenchman looked stricken. He fumbled for words. “Madame, madame, s’il vous plaît.”

  She sniffled, blew her nose again, and struggled to talk over the catch in her throat. She needed to divert the photographer and give herself time to think. “Vous êtes incroyable, vous-même. Taking pictures here can’t be the safest of career choices.”

  He grinned. “No, but then I am a Frenchman.”

  A small strangled laugh escaped. “I’ve met a few like you in my time. Brave and crazy.”

  “François Durocher, à votre service, madame.”