The Missionary (28 page)
Authors: Jack Wilder
Senator Johnson stepped away, and the gathered crowd clapped and cheered. They quieted when Wren re-took the stage.
“Next up is a young woman named Irena Bulova. She’s originally from Russia, but she came to the US five years ago to pursue her dream of becoming a dancer. She was forced into prostitution, and only recently escaped. It’s her story to tell, and I’ll let her tell it, her way.”
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.
The girl screamed, huddled in her corner and covered her naked, frail body with her arms.
No blows came. No hands forced her to the ground. She peered between her shaking arms, eyes wide, wet. A man knelt in front of her, clad head-to-toe in black body armor. He had an assault rifle in his hands, the barrel pointed down. His face was painted, and he had goggles of some kind on his face. He pushed the goggles up, revealing his eyes. Light spilled from the open door, and the girl could see that his eyes were brown, and kind.
He said something, waved at her, pointed to the door. She glanced at the open doorway, the splintered wood. She knew what would happen if she left. She’d tried, and bore the scars of her punishment. She shook her head and huddled deeper. The man seemed to understand her fear. He shouted something to someone she couldn’t see, someone outside her room. There was a scraping noise, like something being dragged. The light was obscured, and a man entered walking backward, dragging something heavy. He dropped whatever it was, and the girl stared in awe and horror.
It was
him
. Dead. Eyes wide, staring, a hole in the center of his head.
She looked up at the man, then back at her dead captor. Hope flooded through her.
Someone else came, another man in body armor, and he handed her a thick, soft blanket, wrapped it around her shoulders without touching her. The girl hesitantly stood up, circling far around the corpse of her tormenter, watching him, making sure he didn’t rise up and hit her, force himself on her. He stayed dead, and then she was out in the light, the humid heat. It wasn’t light, really. It was nighttime, but she’d spent so long locked in that windowless room that even the relative darkness of city at night was bright.
The girl found herself in the back of a van with more than twenty other girls just like her, all of them wrapped in identical blankets, dark blue wool with a white insignia stamped on it. The girl’s English was poor, but she could read it better than she could speak it.
International Abolition Coalition
, it read, the words printed in a circle, with a globe in the center ringed by stylized doves, their wings interlocking.
The door of the van closed, but there was light, and tinted windows to the outside. The van rumbled away, turning and stopping and starting. Lights flashed, circling blue police car lights, following the van, which entered an underground garage. The van doors were opened, and a woman stood in front them, dressed simply in a fitted, floor length yellow dress. Her hair was black, tied back in a ponytail. She was short, curvy, and her belly was rounded slightly with new pregnancy.
She held her hand to the girl, and said in halting Thai, “Hello. My name is Wren. You’re free now. No one will hurt you, or touch you unless you let them. Will you come with me?”
The girl watched the woman’s eyes, saw genuine compassion, and something else. Understanding. The girl took the outstretched hand and stepped down, keeping the blue blanket wrapped tight around her body. The woman repeated her message to each girl as they stepped out of the van. The concrete was cold on bare feet, and the air smelled of old diesel exhaust, but it was welcome change from where they’d been.
The girls were led into an open room. There were benches, and chairs, paintings on the wall, abstracts and landscapes. The light was soft and yellow, coming from lamps in corners. The girls all sat down, and other women passed out bottles of water, little packets of food.
One wall had a window, showing a doctor’s table. Another woman appeared, this one wearing the white coat of a doctor. She was tall and blond, and had kind blue eyes. She spoke in Thai that was so halting as to be nearly incomprehensible: “You coming with me? I look you, make better. Only me.”
Over the next few days, the girl, and the others like her, were checked out by doctors, fed, clothed, and asked a million questions by authorities. No one in the entire building was male, however. Even the guards at the doors were women. A Thai woman explained to the girl that she could stay in this shelter for as long as she wanted, and people would help her learn to reenter society beyond the shelter, if she wanted. She would be given the opportunity to learn new skills, if she wanted. She could learn English. She could stay and help others, others who had been through the same thing as the girl had experienced.
So the girl stayed. She learned to go out into the city, always with another person, and though she was afraid, she eventually learned that not everyone would hurt her. Men frightened her, but no one touched her. The girl was there when another van came, another van full of girls like herself, naked and terrified and abused. The girl spoke their language, and knew what they’d been through, and she helped them, like others had helped her.
A Note From The Author
First, a few facts on human trafficking, according to
in the United States
is 12-14 years old. It’s estimated that over 100,00 children have been forced into the sex trade in United States; and 1 in 3 runaways is approached by a sex trafficker within 48 hours of being on the street.