by Debra Driza
This was it—a test to see if the military had really pulled it off.
Inhaling a deep breath I didn’t need, I strode through the scanner, trying not to anticipate the sound of a siren and failing miserably.
I burst through to the other side, and . . . nothing. Just amazing, blissful silence.
I squeezed my eyes shut, just for a moment. Mom and I were going to make it. I crossed over to the conveyor belt to grab my shoes, which I slipped back on my feet. The grin I threw over my shoulder at Mom was wide as she passed through the doorway behind me. Home free.
I was jerked back around by an unexpected explosion of noise, harsh and frenzied. Not a siren.
Barking.
The German shepherd lunged to the end of its leash, dragging a male guard behind it while a uniformed woman stepped forward. Its mouth opened, white canines gleaming as it snarled and snapped at my leg. Only my quick reflexes saved me. I leaped back just as the dog’s powerful jaws snapped shut, right where my thigh had been less than a second ago. I stared at the crazed animal in horror.
Why, why was it barking at me? Did it sense something the scanner couldn’t? What if I didn’t smell right? If so, the guards couldn’t know. They had to think there was a logical explanation.
“Please get it away from me,” I said, shrinking. “I don’t want to get bitten.”
The young guard holding the leash yanked the dog back, snapped out a sharp command. The dog ignored him. Those glistening brown eyes refused to leave me, and the second the handler gave it slack, it lunged again, assaulting me with that rapid-fire bark and a dose of musty dog breath.
Drool flew from its black lips, and its teeth snapped as it lunged a second time. All I could think was It knows. Somehow this dog knows I’m not real.
I stumbled back even farther as its claws scratched at the slick floor in a frenzied effort to reach me. Deep barks echoed through the building. And I saw when everything began to change. The stiffening of the female guard’s posture, the minute narrowing of her eyes. The flutter of her fingers toward the walkie-talkie on her hip. The hiss of Mom’s sharp inhalation.
Nine guards within a twenty-foot radius, two of them and a dog right in front of me. Fear pumped through my chest. Maybe I could make it back to the front exit, given the crowd cover and the fact that it was doubtful their weapons could stop me anyway.
Maybe I could make it, but Mom never would.
Her words tumbled through my head. Promise me, Mila.
I’d promised. But it was a promise I’d never intended to keep.
“You’re both going to need to come with me. Leave your bags, but keep your identification and boarding passes with you.”
“Can’t you just scan her here? We’re going to miss our plane.” Mom thrust her hands on her hips and said everything with a hint of a whine. A total act, because Mom never whined. “Dogs never like her . . . they can sense her fear.”
The male guard backed the dog away while the woman shook her head. “Ma’am, this animal is highly trained and we have policy to follow. Now let’s go.” Her voice wasn’t unsympathetic, but she wasn’t going to budge, either.
Mom rested her hand on my shoulder and slanted me a sideways glance. “You ready, Stephanie?”
When she uttered “ready,” she rubbed her nose. It was subtle—I never would have caught it if I hadn’t been expecting it—but her finger pointed briefly past security, toward the narrow passageway that led to the gates. And she mouthed a word.
“Map.”
I smiled, nodded, murmured a low “Okay.” I watched as the woman turned to lead us back the way we’d come, past the security lines and toward the check-in area, while I concentrated: GPS.
I waited as Mom pretended to stumble into her, deftly using her foot to whip the woman’s ankle out from under her, while a green schematic of the airport burst into my visual field.
And then I grabbed Mom’s hand and we were running.
The map self-adjusted as we sprinted down the passageway, showed us closing in on the thin finger housing C gates 27 through 41. We burst into the concourse before security knew what had happened. As we passed a frozen yogurt shop on the right, I yanked two cups out of a startled pedestrian’s hands, throwing them down on the floor behind us, hoping the slickness would slow our pursuers. Security’s shouts followed us past Starbucks and Beaches Boardwalk while we navigated through clumps of travelers, bumping coffee cups and purses along the way. Each and every foot strike pounded more terror through my legs and urged me to run faster. Only a huge force of will made me keep pace with Mom.
Ahead, a group of businessmen looked back over their suited shoulders. They darted out of our path with a screech of suitcase wheels, while the map highlighted a simple truth: the concourse ended soon, which left us only one way out.
The unattended gates.
More footsteps behind us now, more shouts.
“This way,” I yelled, veering right after Gate 29 and pointing at the door to Gate 30.
Through the panel of huge windows, I could see that Gate 30 had a Jetway but no plane.
I sprinted for the door, a pack of security guards behind us and the unknown ahead of us.
We ignored the startled cries of waiting passengers. A blue-skirted airline attendant dashed out from behind the counter and made a grab for my sleeve. “Hey, you can’t—”
I shoved her off and yanked open the door. Her protest followed us as our shoes thudded down the narrow corridor.
We hit the sharp turn to the left running. Ten feet ahead, a big square opened up directly to the outside, giving us a clear view of the tarmac, the wing of the plane the next gate over, and the runway beyond it. Empty space awaited. That, and a huge drop onto hard, hard ground.
I looked over the edge, and the red lights shimmered.
Distance: 9.1 ft.
Impact acceptable.
I could make it—but Mom’s human body might not.
“Go,” Mom panted, pulling up to a stop just before the edge. “It’s not that high, a straight drop, no sheer or sharp objects like with Kaylee’s truck. You’ll be fine.”
In a split second I realized she wasn’t joking. She expected me to jump onto the hard, dirty, uninviting tarmac—and leave her behind.
Mom grabbed my shoulders. Hard. “Go! GO!”
The Jetway vibrated. Out of time—the guards were here. As Mom spun to see the first one’s face pop around the corner, I yanked her toward me, wrapping my arms around her waist and forcing her against my chest.
And then I leaned back into empty space, pulling us both down, down, down.
“No! Stop!” the lead guard yelled, throwing his hand out as if to grab us. But he was too far away.
Air whooshed by as we free fell to the tarmac.
My back hit the ground with a loud smack, followed by my skull. The stun of impact, the pressure of absorbing Mom’s fall—they stilled me for an instant, my vision full of reddish-brown hair and blue sky. An airplane roared in the distance while Mom lay unmoving on top of me.
Was I okay?
Internal scan: No damage.
Relief rushed through me, until I realized:
Mom wasn’t moving.
The growing commotion above us echoed the growing rigidity in my limbs, the tightening grip on my throat. I gently rolled her to her back, got on my knees beside her.
“Are you all right?” I said, searching for some sign of injury while begging, Please be okay, please, please, please.
A second later, her pale blue eyes flew open and immediately narrowed on my face. “You promised me.”
The rigidity vanished and I sprang to my feet. “You can ground me later.” I pulled her to a stand, combating the urge to yank her into a huge hug, just in case she was sore.
While I made sure she could support her own weight, the security guards above crammed closer to the edge of the dropoff.
One grabbed his buddy by the shoulder. “Jesus Christ, did you see that? They’ve
got to be high on something. . . .”
Another shouted into a walkie-talkie. “Suspects on tarmac outside C Gate Thirty, Terminal Three. Send units to apprehend.”
We needed to get out of there.
As I urged Mom into motion, my gaze fell on the red-and-blue insignia of the British Airways plane idling at the next gate over . . . and the half-full luggage truck idling beside it.
“Come on!” I grabbed Mom’s forearm and pulled her into a run.
The loud hum of the plane’s engine must have covered all of our commotion from the two busy luggage workers, but our run alerted them. As one of them turned from shoving a bag onto the upward conveyor belt, he saw us. He motioned to his coworker, who turned our way too. They just stood there, watching us run at them with puzzled expressions. Wondering, maybe, if there’d been a luggage screwup of epic proportions.
Somewhere behind us, I heard the shouts of security guards. Ground-level shouts.
Human threat detected.
Mom stumbled a few times as we raced for the truck’s open cab, but I caught her. Kept propelling her forward. When we were ten feet away, the worker pointed at something behind us.
The guards.
A glance over my shoulder confirmed it. On foot, but gaining.
Distance to threat: 42 ft.
“You first,” I shouted at Mom as we finally reached the truck. I boosted her into the cab and jumped into the driver’s seat behind her.
Just then, the worker darted forward. Before I could pull away, he had one foot on the passenger floorboard and one hand on Mom’s arm, trying to force her out.
With my right hand latching onto Mom’s other arm, I floored the gas, then spun the wheel to the left. At the same time, I saw Mom lift her outside foot and shove hard on his chest. The guy stumbled back onto the tarmac.
My elation was short-lived. Midway through our turn, I saw the group of guards on foot, but they still weren’t close enough to catch us.
No, it was what I saw when I pulled around the tail of the British Airways plane that drained the relief from my body. Two security cars. Blocking me from the path I’d planned on taking to get us back to the street, and worse—headed right toward us.
Distance to threat: 35 ft.
Engage?
“No!” I said, gritting my teeth and trying to banish the ridiculous red question from my head. Engage, right. A guarantee that someone would get hurt.
I whipped the wheel to the right, seeking another escape route. Tarmac surrounded us, with its Jetways and luggage trucks and waiting planes, split between the spokes of Terminal 1 and Terminal 3. Beyond it lay long runways and patches of grass.
Shrill sirens cut through the airplane noise, getting closer and closer by the second.
I backtracked toward Terminal 1. Our truck sped across the tarmac, while an Air Canada plane slowly rolled out of the gate to our left. If the plane continued its trajectory at that speed until it hit the runway, would we make it past?
The calculation buzzed in my head, incredibly fast.
Current speed: 45 mph.
Approximate speed of vehicle ahead: 30 mph.
Clearance possible.
I inhaled deeply. We’d never outrun the cars behind us in this poky thing, which meant we’d have to outmaneuver them.
Mom’s hand shot out to clutch my knee with surprising strength. When I glanced at her, her expression was tight, her eyebrows lowered to give her that fierce expression.
She must be feeling better.
“Can you drive?”
Her gaze shifted, to where the plane kept rolling. “Right in front of that plane?” she said.
“That’s the plan.”
“You got it. On the count of three? One—”
Mom’s left hand clutched the steering wheel.
“Two—”
I scooted toward her, to the right, while she rose into a half stand.
“Three!”
I released the wheel and lunged for the passenger side, while Mom vaulted across my lap. The truck jerked left and slowed, until Mom regained control of the wheel and smacked her foot to the gas.
“Keep going!” I yelled, standing up and facing backward. Gripping the seat tightly, I stepped up onto the small ledge.
“Mila! What are you—”
I’d launched myself across the two-foot gap and into the first luggage trailer before Mom could finish her sentence.
“Keep going!” I repeated, staring behind me.
Distance to threat: 20 ft.
They were so close. As I stared into the approaching windshields, fear locked my legs in place. Move, Mila. Now! I scrambled past the remaining suitcases in my trailer, shoving a few of them out until they smacked the pavement. Then I made my way to the end of the trailer and jumped into the second one.
The car on the left veered sharply to avoid a suitcase. The car on the right hit a big one with its inside tire. Brakes squealed as the front tire bounced over the case, then the rear. I grabbed the heaviest suitcase I could find and pushed to the end of the trailer. Readying myself.
From the opposite direction, the plane’s engine rumbled its approach.
“Mila!”
I looked over my shoulder, and my heart seized. Oh, god, the plane was too close. My analysis had malfunctioned. We were going to crash.
And then we were crossing. On my left, the giant nose of a jet barreled right for us, its roaring engine sounding like it could devour us. I bet the pilots never dreamed anyone would be stupid enough to try to cut them off.
Hopefully, we weren’t being stupid.
With all the force I could muster, I turned back to the security cars and swung my arm forward. The suitcase flew.
It smashed the windshield of the lead car. The car wrenched left and braked.
When we’d cleared the plane and the other car was directly in its path, I threw a second suitcase. And a third.
One hit the driver’s side windshield, while the other skidded under the hood. The car jerked, slid to the right.
And ran right into the plane’s front left wheel. A hideous screech filled the air as the plane forced the car forward.
I turned away and hurried back to Mom, leaping both trailer gaps until I was back in the passenger seat.
We’d barely raced past the end of Terminal 2 when more sirens blared, the sound paralyzing me.
Threat detected.
I watched three more cars zoom at us head-on from an extension of Terminal 1.
With a shaky breath and a lead ball in my stomach, I turned my head to the right.
Threat detected.
Two more from that way.
Peered over my shoulder.
Threat detected.
Three more. At this point, I didn’t have the strength to fight off the red words, the voice. It didn’t matter. We’d lost.
Mom glanced toward the runways, but I shook my head. “There’s no way. Not with that many cars. We’d never make it—they’re too fast.”
Besides, there was a new development. Though the windshield of one of the cars behind me, I’d seen glints of metal in the sun. Both guards were holding guns.
“We need to stop the truck and surrender.”
At first I thought Mom would listen. Though her shoulders remained rigid, her jaw tense, she eased her foot off the pedal, letting the truck slow. The cars in front of us slowed, too.
And then she gunned it and yanked hard on the wheel to the left. Toward the runway.
“What are you doing?” I shouted, watching with dizzying dread as the security cars followed.
“You’re going to jump out up here, and I’m going to keep going. Most of them will follow me since I’m heading for the airplanes. You just need to overpower one guard, grab one car.”
“And just leave you behind? No!”
“Mila, please.”
I shook my head. No way.
Mom smacked the wheel as the cars closed in behind us. “Damn it, Mila, you promised.�
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The guilt pinched again, but all I could think was how much worse it would be if I abandoned Mom now. “I lied. Please, stop the car, before you get hurt.”
Her foot pushed harder on the gas. “Then you need to promise me something else. If we get taken back to the compound, whatever you do, don’t show your emotions, don’t lose control. Your feelings are a detriment there. Do you understand?”
“Yes! Now please, stop!”
She hit the brakes, and the truck jerked to a halt. She stood and lifted her hands over her head, and I did the same.
Then all we could do was wait while the cars pulled up. While security piled out, guns pointed, yelling at us to slowly exit the truck, keeping our hands up and visible at all times. While they told us to kneel on the tarmac and they gradually approached, guns trained on our heads.
While they cuffed us and loaded us into separate cars, returning us right back to the situation we’d been desperate to escape.
Twenty
Ten minutes later, five guards marched us down a brightly lit hallway that smelled faintly of cigarettes. The leader stopped outside a room labeled DETAINMENT and unlocked it with a key card he produced from his pocket.
“Inside,” he said gruffly, shoving open the door. The guard holding my elbow steered me none too gently inside, and Mom followed.
The room was a small square of hopelessness.
A flash of red. And then:
Dimensions: 10 ft. by 9 ft.
I swallowed a horrified giggle. Perfect. And now I knew the exact measurements of hopelessness.
The flimsy folding metal table sitting in the middle bore the jagged scars of a knife or key or other sharp instrument across the top and was accompanied by four plastic chairs better suited for a patio, two on either side. A video camera angled down from the ceiling in the back left corner, its blinking red light confirming its functionality. No desk, no decorations, nothing that carried enough heft to be used as a weapon.
“Sit,” the leader barked.
Our guards escorted us around opposite ends of the table and slid the two chairs back, the scraping sound making my guard wince. I sank into my chair, watched Mom do the same in hers.