Jack Wilder - The Missionary

Irena was a beautiful, petite woman of twenty-five or so with brown hair hanging in thick dreadlocks to her mid-back, a ring through the center of her lower lip and thin white scars criss-crossing her wrists and forearms. Two men took the podium away and another set a microphone and stand in front of a chair. Irene sat down in the chair, settled a battered, shiny black guitar on her crossed legs, and set about strumming and adjusting the tuning of her guitar.

“Hello. I met Wren three months ago, on the street of Washington D.C.” Irena had a soft voice touched by a Russian accent. “She seemed to see something in me, a thing she recognized, perhaps. It is in our eyes, what we have been through. She got me to tell her my story, and she convinced me to come here, and do this thing.” Irena breathed deeply, and then began strumming her guitar in a simple rhythm. “Out of hunger and desperation, I was made to be a prostitute. I nearly starved to my death before this happened, and from desperation and fear I continued to sell myself, not for money or for drugs, but for bread, and water. Often, this was moldy bread and dirty water. And I had to do much, turn many johns to get it. Only through the kindness of a police officer named Daniel Harris was I able to escape this and learn to become something else. During my time as a prostitute, my knee was broken. It was so that I could not run away. It was done on purpose. I will never dance, now. But I have fingers to play this guitar, which Daniel taught me to play. And I have a voice, with which I can sing.”

She picked a melody on the higher strings, eyes closed, and sang.

“Only one breath, and then another,

Only one day, and then the another.

I cannot hope, I can only breathe.

I am here, and I cannot leave.

The streets are empty in the dawn, and cold.

Buildings around me are gray, and old.

A sparrow hops from square to square just beyond me,

Brown and small, and free.

My arms have scars,

My window has bars,

A knife to free me made the scars,

A man who owns me made the bars.

The sparrow flies away, and I return.

Someone is waiting for me, watching,

And inside I burn.

My soul is dying, weeping without stopping.

And then one day, in the cold and swirling snow,

I meet a man, with a heart that is kind, and eyes that glow.

He heard me, listened to the pleading in my silent eyes.

Ignored the ‘I am fine’ lies.

Now, my window has no bars,

But always will I have the scars.”

Irena let the last note hang, quavering. She glanced off to the side, and a man in a policeman’s dress uniform watched her, his loving expression telling as much of a story as her song. Irena bowed over her guitar as the crowd cheered. She strummed her guitar once more, and then began playing again, but Stone’s attention was drawn away by the sight of Wren, hand clapped over her mouth, fleeing the room.

Stone followed, and found her in a darkened office, sitting in a visitor’s chair, slumped over and weeping. He knelt in front of her, and she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. He didn’t need to say anything as he held her.

“I’m fine for days, weeks,” she said. “I don’t have nightmares as much anymore, or flashbacks. And then, suddenly, it all hits me, out of nowhere. That song. Lisa’s story. I was fine through it all. But then the way Irena looked at Daniel. It made me remember us, in Manila, and right afterward. How you saved me. And I just…I lost it.”

Stone kissed the top of her head. “You did something amazing today, sweetheart.”

“Not just today. This is what I’m going to do with my life. I didn’t know before. I was just going to college, figuring I’d end up doing…whatever. Teaching, maybe. That was the idea, I guess. I don’t really even remember a lot about who I was before, what I liked, what I wanted. This…organizing these events, getting people to tell their stories. Helping people who have been through what I went through, and so much worse…it’s who I am now.”

Stone nodded, then took a deep breath. “I spoke to Senator Johnson the other day. In all the craziness of getting ready for this event, I forgot to tell you. He came to me with an idea. It’s kind of…risky, but I think it’s worth it. Part of what Alan wants to do with the Coalition is get a taskforce going. A quasi-military group that goes in and shuts down people like Cervantes. He has several countries on board to help us, or at least look the other way when we go in and use any necessary force to shut them down. We’d be sanctioned by the US government, and Johnson wants me to lead it.”

Wren sat up, snatched a tissue from a box on the desk and dabbed her eyes with it. “So you’d be a soldier again?”

Stone shrugged. “Sort of. Not an official soldier, but I’d be doing what I did when I rescued you, except targeted and planned missions with current intel and backup, and proper gear.”

“Are you going to do it?”

He nodded. “I think so. It’s what I’m best at. I’m at loose ends in the civilian world.” He took her hand. “I’d have armor protecting me, and guys as good as or better than me as my team.”

Wren stood up, and Stone followed her to his feet, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I’ll be afraid for you,” she said, gazing up at him. “I’ll worry every moment you’re gone. I’m not sure how well I’ll deal with it, honestly.”

“I know. But here’s the other part. Johnson thinks there needs to be a female face waiting for them when we get them to safety, someone who knows how to talk to them. They’ll be traumatized, and they won’t trust men. Johnson is working on getting together a group of doctors and nurses, all women, to be the first-contact medical team. He wants you as the liaison.”

Wren just smiled and nodded, curling her arms around Stone’s neck. “I think that’s brilliant. We’d be together, that way too.”

“Always.”

She kissed him, her lips soft and warm. “Now, I’ve been gone too long. We should go back out. I’ll have to have Alyssa fix my makeup.”

Stone pulled back to examine her face. “Yeah, you’ve got some smears under your eyes.”

Wren frowned and smacked his shoulder. “You’re not supposed to tell me that, dummy. You’re supposed to tell me I look fine, so I can roll my eyes at how men don’t know anything about makeup.” Stone just snorted and nuzzled a kiss to her throat, which prompted a soft whimper from her. She pulled away, pushing him out the door in front of her. “Don’t get me started, George.”

Stone growled. “Don’t call me George, dammit.”

Wren just laughed and tangled her fingers with his as they made their way back toward the ballroom. Stone watched as Wren waved her makeup artist over, and he waited outside the bathroom while she had her makeup tended to. He fingered the small box in his pocket, worrying at the velvet with his thumb. He had a plan, a buddy from the SEALs and his girlfriend preparing a little private dinner on the roof of an apartment building, with a view of the capitol building lit up in the darkness. There would be roses, and champagne, and a proposal. And, hopefully, a tearful yes.

THE END

EPILOGUE

The girl shuddered in the darkness. She heard the footsteps approaching, and knew what it meant. She cowered in the farthest corner, scrunching down to make herself as small as possible.

Then, something unusual happened. There were loud bangs, explosions, rapid gunfire. She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew it scared her. The footsteps stopped, went the other way, and the girl sobbed in relief, grateful that she’d been given a reprieve, no matter how brief.

It was only a moment, it turned out. Loud bootsteps clomped beyond the door. A voice growling in a language the girl didn’t understand, a response in the same language. Then a deafening crash, and the door burst open, splintering, kicked apart by a huge black-booted foot.