Transfer of Power

SHE HAD MADE it through the first twenty-four hours without getting hit.

Anna Rielly felt pretty good, considering what she had been through. Her back was a little stiff from sleeping on the floor or, at least, trying to sleep on the floor.

The terrorists had made sleep next to impossible by waking them at least once an hour from sundown to sunup. And to make matters worse, they also pulled people from the group and beat them in front of everyone.

For the women, there was something else to be afraid of.

Sometime after midnight, a young blond woman had been yanked from the group by the terrorist that had followed Rielly into the bathroom.

Rielly could not say for sure how long the young woman had been gone-the terrorists had taken everyone’s watch in an effort to further disorient them-but it seemed to be at least several hours. When the woman finally returned, her clothes were partially torn and she had a look in her eyes… a look Rielly had once seen in her own eyes.

Rielly glanced down at Stone Alexander, who was lying crunched up in a fetal position, his jacket neatly folded under his head for a pillow.

She was grateful that he had stopped crying.

The less attention drawn to them the better.

Brushing a wisp of hair back behind her ear, she looked around the room, careful to keep her head down. Two guards were by the door talking to each other. Rielly knew she wasn’t the only one who had to go to the bathroom, but no one dared ask after what had happened the night before.

Folding her legs Indian style, she glanced over her shoulder and then quickly turned her head back. The terrorist, the one with all of the jewelry and slicked-back hair, was staring at her with a cigarette hanging from his mouth-the same man who had plucked the young blonde from the group the night before.

Anna Rielly had been through that nightmare before, and she had sworn to herself that she would rather die than let it happen again. Four years earlier, Rielly had taken the Loop from the TV station in downtown Chicago to her apartment in Lincoln Park. It was late when she stepped off the train.

When she reached the street, two men jumped her from the shadows and dragged her into an alley and raped her. That harrowing event had left her bruised and battered, but her physical wounds were easy to overcome compared to the deeper mental scars. Even these were starting to heal, though, thanks in no small part to Coreen Allen, Rielly’s therapist.

Rielly had been going to Allen twice a week for almost four years.

Before the rape she had been a fun-loving, outgoing young woman who very much enjoyed male companionship.

The rape had given her a hard edge and an understandable distrust of men with the help of Allen she had again grown to enjoy the company of men who were interested in her, but the physical boundary still had not been crossed. When she took her new job in Washington, Rielly thought it was the perfect chance for a fresh start.

One of the only benefits of the personal disaster was her hyper awareness Rielly had already had street smarts, but the rape had raised her awareness to an almost paranormal level. It was hard to imagine how her current situation could get any worse, but Rielly sensed that when nightfall came, it would.