The Syrians have retreated. The Americans have bombed. The Squid Men held their ground.
He turned off the TV.
Bramo pushed the door open and came in.
"Victor, there's news from Saint Petersburg."
Victor lifted his head.
"Speak."
Bramo handed the tablet to him.
On the screen was a video. The quality was poor, shaking heavily, as if it was shot with a phone.
In the footage was a little girl—thin, pale, large eyes, sitting on a worn mattress, facing the camera.
"My name is Anna Voronova." She started, speaking Russian, with a sob in her voice, "My father is Grisha Voronov. He's in Mexico. He sold me. He doesn't want me anymore."
Victor looked at that face.
Fourteen. The same age as his daughter.
"I hate him." She said, "I hate him."
The video ended there.
Victor put the tablet down.
Bramo stood beside him.
"Victor, the Principal sent this. It's all over the internet now."
Victor nodded.
"What does he want to do?"
Bramo thought for a moment.
