by Ally Carter
That is what this feels like.
Not the mind-blowing pain of a shattered leg, but the whoosh of air that leaves my lungs, the jarring crush of the earth rushing up to greet me. For a moment, I forget where I am. It’s like I’ll never breathe again.
“No,” I say, as if I can forbid it, stop it. “You can’t.”
Was this what the meeting at the embassy was about this morning? Was this the deal my grandfather brokered while I was out having the Scarred Man bind my wound? I want to run down the hill and yell at the mob that I’d be dead if it weren’t for Alexei. But I can’t say a thing.
Alexei puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “My father is holding a press conference denouncing my immunity even as we speak. They are readying an official vehicle to take me to the central police station in about an hour. It is not an arrest. I will answer their questions, that’s all. I have nothing to hide.”
It’s what I wanted at first, for the Russians to stop shielding themselves behind immunity. For the world to see that Alexei has nothing to hide. But in my mind, I hear the Scarred Man’s words — the Scarred Man’s warning. Terror fills me and I can’t let Alexei see it.
“This is insane!”
“No. It’s not. It is for the best. I can turn myself in, and there can be a full investigation, without all the politics.”
“This is Adria! There will always be politics!”
“Grace, my father is worried what all of this unrest will lead to. It can’t be good for diplomatic relations and —”
“Do you think I care about diplomatic relations?” I shout. “Well, I don’t, Alexei. And you shouldn’t either. Think about it.” I grab his shirt. I refuse to let him go. “None of the politicians care about what happened to Spence. Not what really happened. They just want to make this problem go away. Make you go away.”
I can feel Alexei’s heart pounding against his chest as I grip his shirt, holding him to me and this place and this time. I force him to look into my eyes. I have to make him see.
I finally understand what Dominic was really saying: Sometimes good people stand in the way of bad things. Sometimes good people get hurt. But maybe if I’m smart enough, strong enough, clever enough, this time I can find a way to stop it.
“You have to go back to Russia. Now! You have to get out of here.”
But Alexei is stepping back, shaking his head. “I will not run away.”
“You can’t go to jail, Alexei.”
A brief glint fills his eyes. “Are you worried about me?” he tries to tease, but this isn’t funny. None of it is funny.
So I yell, “Yes!”
Alexei is taken aback.
“They’re saying someone killed Spence, Alexei. They think someone murdered Spence, and now you are conveniently willing to take the blame for it. Someone wants you to take the blame for it.”
Alexei shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”
It probably seems too improbable for Alexei to believe, this cover-up. My crazy theory. He doesn’t know what I know — he hasn’t seen what I’ve seen.
I look at the Iranian embassy. It is still dilapidated. Still forbidden. It seems like a lifetime ago that my friends and I huddled in its basement, speculating on the Scarred Man’s every move. I miss that feeling — the certainty that came with knowing who the boogeyman was and what needed to be done to stop him.
But right now the villains are nameless and faceless, omnipresent and filling every shadow. Maybe I’m becoming paranoid in my old age. Or maybe paranoia is the only thing that will allow me to see seventeen.
“I know it, Alexei. And if you’ll stop and think about it you’ll know it, too.”
“Grace —”
“We don’t know who killed him,” I say. “Or why. But do you really think this was a mugging or some random act of violence? You saw his body on the beach that day. Did that look like a boy who’d been in an accident?”
He puts his hands over mine. They are warm, pressing against my skin.
“I’ll be okay, Gracie.”
I used to hate it when he called me that. I used to say he didn’t have the right — that it was reserved for Jamie and Jamie alone. But my nickname sounds different when Alexei says it. Maybe it’s his accent, or maybe it is something else. Something … more.
Again, I think about Dominic’s words, the unspoken danger that pulsed beneath the moment. My mother got hurt. Someone wanted her dead. And I killed her.
I vow here and now that I will never again let someone get hurt if I can help it.
Never again.
“I’ll be okay, Gracie,” Alexei reassures me, but I turn my back on him, look up at the Iranian embassy, the rotten fence and overgrown weeds. Another country. Another world.
“My father said that as soon as the political aspect can be set aside we will be able to pursue justice instead of vengeance. He says —”
“He wants the mob to go away, Alexei. And he’s willing to sacrifice his own son to make it happen.”
Alexei pulls away. He can’t face me when he says, “It’s not like that.”
“It is exactly like that.”
For a second, the silence stretches between us. It’s almost quiet here, on the north end of Embassy Row. The protestors are still chanting in the distance, but the wind has shifted now. It blows their cries toward the sea.
“Please do not be angry with me.”
“You think I’m angry?” I snap, then soften. I have to make him see. “Alexei, I’m terrified.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
For leaving me?
For scaring me?
For hurting me?
I can’t tell and he doesn’t say. So I hold out the bottle of water Dominic gave me.
“I’m not thirsty anymore,” I tell him. “Do you want this?”
It’s just a bottle of water, but in the diplomatic world it’s never just that. It is an olive branch. A peace offering.
Alexei takes it with a smile.
“Thank you,” he says, taking a sip.
“Don’t let it go to waste, you know. It might be your last taste of freedom.”
Alexei’s eyes look like he wants to keep smiling as he drinks faster, deeper. But then, even though he’s standing still, he stumbles.
His hand goes limp. The bottle tumbles to the street and starts to roll down the long, sloping hill. But I don’t care about that. I put my arms around his waist and hold him tightly.
“Grace, I don’t feel …”
I know exactly how he feels, but I don’t say so. I just grip his waist tighter with my left hand while, with my right, I slip the nearly empty vial of medicine into my pocket.
Alexei’s gait is uneven as I lead him past the Iranian fence. His legs wobble. But thankfully we are out of view of the street by the time he passes out completely and falls, sprawling into the weeds.
I look down at the sleeping boy who, for once, looks helpless. Innocent.
“It’s for your own good,” I assure him.
Alexei doesn’t say a thing.
I’m almost to Brazil before Noah and Megan see me. He looks worried something bad has happened. He has no idea.
“I got your text. What’s going —”
“Come with me,” I say, and sprint toward the city gates.
I can hear Noah and Megan behind me, but I don’t stop or look back.
“Grace, slow down!” Noah yells, but I am running down the beach like there is no looking back. And there isn’t. Not for me. Not anymore. I will not stop to consider what I’ve done, that it might be a mistake. I did what I had to do. And if I can’t make Noah and Megan see that …
I have to make Noah and Megan see that.
My side no longer hurts. It’s the adrenaline, I know. I have to keep moving, keep fighting. I have to keep us safe and make them see.
When we reach the cliffs that mark the north end of the beach, it’s like we’ve reached a dead end. Almost.
Then they see
it.
“No.” Noah pulls back and shakes his head. He has no intention of following me through the small, arching doorway that was once a hidden passage through the great wall of Adria. Forty years ago, it was the gateway that allowed the Iranian embassy private access to the beach. It’s rusty and overgrown now, but it still works, I know, and I push through it, desperately needing my friends to follow.
“Grace, I thought we talked about this!” Noah calls after me. “I thought we said that maybe Iran wasn’t the best place for us to … you know … hang out.” He glances nervously around, but this stretch of beach is deserted. There is no one here to see. “Especially those of us who are, you know, half Israeli.”
“And American,” Megan adds. “Americans should really keep out as well.”
“Guys.” I look at them and then do something truly desperate. I say, “Please.”
“Grace, wait,” Megan calls to me, but I’m already through the gate and running across the stretch of sand that lies between the wall and a wooden fence that has been beaten down by more than two decades of salty air and neglect.
“Grace!” Megan’s voice isn’t fading, and I know she’s right behind me, running through the weeds that are so thick and high that when I see him, I have to freeze, slamming to a stop.
I feel Megan collide with me, then Noah. For a second, no one speaks. We just stand quietly, staring at the boy asleep on the ground.
His hands are bound with shoestrings, his feet with his own belt. He lies on his side, lifeless and still.
“Alexei!” Megan rushes to his side and shakes him. Her hands push back his hair, looking for some kind of wound.
But Noah doesn’t panic. He just looks at me.
“He’s okay, Megan,” I say. “He’s just sleeping.”
“In the weeds in the backyard of the Iranian embassy?” Noah sounds like he wants to shout but is afraid to.
“He’s drugged,” I say.
“How did he …” Megan starts, then realizes she already knows the answer. “No. No. No, Grace. Tell me you didn’t drug the son of the Russian ambassador and restrain him on Iranian soil. Please tell me you didn’t do that.”
“I had to!” I tell her.
“Oh, she had to,” Noah says, cutting his eyes at Megan and then at me. “Tell us, Grace, exactly why you had to drug Alexei.”
“He was going to give up his diplomatic immunity. He was going to turn himself in.”
I stand, waiting, watching. And that is when I see the look that passes between Megan and Noah like a secret.
“What?” I ask, but they stay silent. “What is it?”
Noah eases toward me. “Alexei’s dad just finished the press conference. It’s done. They’re expecting Alexei to come in for questioning” — Noah glances down at his watch — “now. Right now, in fact.”
Megan shifts her gaze onto me. “If Alexei doesn’t show up …”
“He can’t show up,” I tell them.
“He has to!” Megan says. “Without diplomatic immunity, not showing up will mean violating all kinds of Adrian laws. He has to turn himself in. It’s too late.”
“No,” I say. I’m not shouting. My voice is even and low. “He didn’t do it, and he is not going to turn himself in. Now come on.” I reach down and grab Alexei’s arm. “Help me get him inside. I would have done it myself, but he’s heavier than he looks.”
I pull and tug, but Alexei barely moves across the overgrown grass. Neither Noah nor Megan moves to help me.
“We have to get him inside,” I say again. “We have to hide him. If we hide him then he’ll be okay. We can —”
Noah’s hand is on my arm. Calm radiates through his skin and into mine. It’s enough to make me want to cry, so I pull harder.
“Grace,” he says.
“Help me get him inside!”
“Grace,” he says again. “What’s wrong?”
But a better question is: What’s right?
My mother is dead and so is Spence. They’re both dead, and it’s too late to save them.
But it’s not too late to save Alexei.
“Alexei is innocent,” I say, my voice so soft it’s almost a whisper.
“So?” Noah prompts, and I look into his big brown eyes that have always felt as comforting as chocolate. I want to make him see. But I don’t want to make him change.
“So sometimes innocent people get hurt.”
Megan and Noah see them then, the ghosts that follow me. They hear the things that I can’t say.
“Grace,” Megan says, easing closer, “Alexei can’t stay here.”
“Of course he can’t. But he’s harder to move than I thought he would be.”
“No.” Noah’s voice is so soft it’s like he’s speaking to a child. “I think what Megan was trying to say is that Alexei has to turn himself in.”
“No. He’s got to go back to Moscow. He’ll be okay there. I think. At least, I hope so. They probably can’t get to him in Moscow.”
Neither Megan nor Noah asks who “they” are. They don’t mention my cracking voice or my shaking hands.
“I know I sound like a crazy person,” I tell them. “I know it. But you have to believe me. If he stays —”
“Gracie.” The voice is too far away. I only realize who is speaking when Megan drops to her knees and helps Alexei sit upright.
“What happened?” he asks.
Noah gives me a skeptical look before telling Alexei, “You took a little nap, my friend.”
While Noah works on the belt that binds Alexei’s feet, Megan pulls a pocketknife from somewhere and cuts through the shoestrings around his wrists.
“Alexei, don’t yell,” I tell him. “Just listen. You have to listen to me. Please. You have to go back to Moscow.”
“No!” It hurts for him to shout, I can tell, but he does it anyway. And when he stands, he’s a little unsteady, but that doesn’t stop him. “No. I will not run. I will do the honorable thing for my country and for yours. I must do this!” Then something seems to dawn on Alexei. “What time is it?” he asks.
Noah gives a somber nod. “It’s time.”
Alexei mumbles something in Russian then starts through the lawn, around the corner of the embassy and toward the street. I’m no longer worried that someone might see us at the top of the hill. I’m too afraid of what lies at the bottom.
“Alexei, don’t do this,” I plead.
“I must do this,” he says.
“No, you don’t have to. Okay. So you don’t want to go back to Moscow. Fine. Then stay here. Lay low until we can figure out who really killed Spence. Just —”
We’re on the street when Alexei turns. “It is a matter of honor, Grace.”
“Honor is overrated.”
“I will cooperate with their investigation, and the truth will come out.”
“No!” I grab his arm and stop him, lunge forward and block his way. “It won’t if they don’t want the truth to come out.”
“Who are ‘they,’ Gracie? Tell me.” Alexei’s voice is soft, worried. But not about the situation. About me. He thinks the world is too big and vast, too full of checks and balances for the truth to stay hidden forever. He still thinks the good guys always win.
“I … I don’t know. But don’t go, Alexei. I don’t know why, but I know it is a huge mistake. Please, don’t go.”
Reporters are in position, overlooking the mob and the Russian embassy. The press conference must have sent the cable news networks into a feeding frenzy. I can almost hear the talking heads now, speculating on exactly when the Russian ambassador’s son will appear and make the trip to police headquarters, when the next chapter of the story will begin. They keep their cameras trained on Russia’s gates.
“I’m late.” Alexei glances down the street as a long black car with Russian flags flying near the headlights pulls through the crowd and into the Russian courtyard. “I should be on my way to the police station by now.”
He looks at Megan and
Noah.
“It’ll be okay,” Noah says. When he glances at me, I know he’s not talking about the police. “We’ll take care of her.”
“Yeah.” Megan stands on her tiptoes and kisses Alexei on the cheek.
Then he turns to me. I’m sure that I’m not crying. There has to be some other excuse for the way my eyes go blurry and my throat begins to burn. And yet when Alexei’s fingers come to my cheeks, I notice that they smooth away moisture, but that can’t be right. I’m supposed to be all out of tears.
“I am okay, Gracie,” he tells me, my face still cradled in between his hands. “Do you hear me? I’m okay. I’m going to be okay. No one is trying to hurt me.”
I want to believe him. I swear, I really do. It’s not like I enjoy this terror that consumes me, this never-ending pulse of fear that pounds in my veins and echoes in my mind so hard that even when I cover my ears I hear it.
I don’t want to be right.
But I’m too terrified of what might happen if Alexei is wrong.
Down below, the car sits idling in the Russian courtyard, and the crowd waits with bated breath. They are watching the front doors of the embassy, not the far end of the street. They haven’t seen us. Yet.
Alexei looks toward them, certain of where he must go and what he must do.
“We’re going to figure out who did it,” I tell him. “We’re going to find Spence’s killer. Before it’s too late.”
“What do you think’s going to happen to me, Gracie?” Alexei says it with a grin. It’s almost like a dare.
But that must be too much irony for the universe to handle, because, just then, the big black car explodes, fire and black smoke filling the sky.
The room was probably beautiful once. But now when I pull off the white sheets that cover the furniture, a cloud of dust billows up. Moldy drapes cover the windows, but Megan pulls them aside just a crack and peers out onto Embassy Row. From the second story of Iran we can see the street. The chaos. That’s why we aren’t in the basement. No, we’re here, watching the black smoke rise into the sky, listening to the constant chorus of sirens, shrill and piercing, playing like an old-fashioned phonograph turning in another room.