She shook her head.“Nothing good.Kenya is bringing in more troops.I saw Americans there, too.Not in uniform, though, so probably CIA.”They spoke in Haitian Creole, voices low so as not to carry out of the thin walls.“They’re going to come for you, Jean.They think you’re the problem.”
Jean’s wife Daphnée slapped the table with her hand.“The only people who think he’s the problem are the ones we’re trying to overthrow.”
“Yeah, the ones with the guns.”Henri Desalin, Jean’s oldest son, spat on the ground.“We cannot fight all of them with what we have.”
Julien Desalin, the youngest son, laughed.“We can one at a time.”
Marie looked from one nephew to the other and finally settled back on her brother.Her breath hitched.“I can’t lose you, too.”
Her mind went back to her tenth birthday.She went with her family to church, but the American soldiers burst in, screaming in English.Her mother had grabbed her and held her against her while they searched the men.Out of the service, they took seventeen men, including their oldest brother, Marcus.They’d never seen him again.
Jean put a hand on her shoulder.“We will prevail.I’m working out the plan now.In the morning, I’ll make contact with the Chinese spy.I’ll find out what they want from us and hash out what I want from them.”
Marie waved her hands in the air.“Why bring more foreigners in?Huh?Other countries have stepped in and tried to solve Haiti’s problems for decades.Can’t we, as Haitians, just be the ones in charge of our own destiny?”
Jean laughed low and opened up his leather-bound notebook.She knew how intricately he planned, and how he organized the lists and diagrams in the pages of his precious journal.“I can assure you, sister, that I will be the only one in charge in this situation.Anything I offer will be only what I’m willing to give and nothing more.The people of Haiti deserve true power and true independence.I will not negotiate that away like this current fool.”
He pulled her into his arms.“Go with Daphnée to the estate.Prepare the meal.The boys and I will meet him there.”
She looked up at him.“You all risk capture if you go to the estate.”
He shook his head.“No danger.I will be giving a speech in Cap-Haïtien.We found a double to serve as a decoy.”
Daphnée grabbed her shoulders.“We must persevere, sister.Even when we’re scared.”
Marie took a deep breath and slowly let it out.The lingering salt of unshed tears coated her tongue,
“You’re right.I know you’re right.”
She went to the door and put her hand on the handle.“Liberté ou la Mort,” she whispered, quoting the early nineteenth-century slogan from the Haitian Revolution.“Liberty or death.”
“Liberté ou la Mort,” he replied.“Be well, sister.”
Clarksville Memorial Hospital
Clarksburg, TN near Fort Campbell, KY
November
Three Years Later
The operating room hummed with controlled chaos, the sterile air sharp with antiseptic.Olive stood at the ready, her gloved hands steady despite the adrenaline pulsing through her.Overhead, the surgical lights blazed, illuminating Tommy Davis, a young man in his mid-20s who’d happened to be visiting his grandparents when assailants burst in, intending to rob two elderly people, not expecting the presence of someone young and spry who could fight back.The ER nurse who had brought him up to surgery said he’d wrestled the gun away from one guy only to be shot by the other.
Back in Landstuhl, she routinely dealt with this type of trauma.Not so much in Clarksburg, Tennessee, just outside the gates of Fort Campbell.Usually, appendectomies and bodies crushed by vehicle collisions filled her Saturday nights.
His vitals flickered on the monitor, heart rate erratic, BP crashing.“Scalpel,” Doctor Marian Schneider barked, voice taut.Olive slapped the instrument into her palm, her movements precise, automatic.The patient’s chest was already prepped, drapes framing the entry wound—a jagged mess just below the left clavicle.Blood seeped despite the suction, pooling in the field.
“BP’s dropping—80 over 50,” the anesthesiologist called.“Tachycardic at 130.”
“Push another unit of type specific,” Dr.Schneider ordered, slicing through subcutaneous tissue.“We’ve got a bleeder.Suction, now.”
Olive leaned in, maneuvering the suction tip, clearing the field as the surgeon clamped a spurting vessel.Her eyes flicked to the monitor.His oxygen sats dipped.“He’s desatting,” the anesthesiologist said, voice calm but urgent.“Increasing O2.”
“Retractor,” Dr.Schneider said.Olive handed it over, anticipating the skilled surgeon’s next move.The bullet had torn through the pectoralis major, nicking the subclavian artery.“We’re in deep—possible lung involvement.”Dr.Schneider looked up at her student, who hovered just behind Olive.“Come closer.I want you to see how I do it.”Dr.Schneider refocused on the patient as Olive shifted, giving the medical student room to get closer.“Get me the 4-0 Prolene.”
Olive passed the suture, then prepped the chest tube kit.Blood loss was critical, and the young hero hung by a thread.“Another unit’s up,” she announced, hanging the bag, watching crimson flow through the IV line.
“Pulse is thready,” the anesthesiologist warned.“We’re losing him.”
