Free Before the fall: arrival (Embassy row # 0.5) by Ally Carter Page A

sea.
    “Gracie!” the voice calls again, but she’s not yelling for me. She’s yelling at me. A panic rings in her voice and I don’t hesitate. I just push against the current, faster. Stronger.
    I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
    Not when a deep voice says, “Pardon,” in Adrian. Not when a tall figure bolts between me and the crowd.
    I stumble then and stare at the man in the blue jumpsuit. He almost blends in with the other workers, but there is something about his broad shoulders and confident gait as he strolls away. For a second, I am frozen. Terrified. And then terror bleeds into something much, much deeper.
    It’s him.
    He’s here.
    I’ve found him.
    Instantly, I’m pulled like a magnet across the tarmac and through the swinging doors. I drop my bag, moving faster. Following.
    All around me, I see signs in Adrian and English, Arabic and French, but I don’t stop to read them. I’m pushing past piles of suitcases and the stacks of crates that fill the dark and dingy space. I hear the woman yell, “Gracie, no!”
    And that’s when the man realizes he is not alone.
    Slowly, he turns, his face shielded by shadows, and I feel my blood turn cold.
    “You,” I say. “It’s really …”
    But when the man steps into the light, words fail me. Air rushes from my lungs, and I know I’ve made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.
    He’s too short. And when he begins to shout in Adrian, his accent is too thick. But, most of all, there is no scar. His face is smooth and flawless, and so I know he’s not the man I thought he was. Emotion pounds through me. Is it relief or disappointment? I’m not sure. I just know that I am wrong. So, so wrong.
    “I’m sorry,” I say in English and then again in Adrian, holding up my hands and backing away. “I’m so sorry. I’ll go.”
    I turn and rush back, grab my bag and run through the doors, across the tarmac, and into the airport terminal. The people from my flight are still walking toward customs, but I run.
    “Stop!” someone yells in Adrian.
    “Halt!” I hear in English.
    But I can’t stop. Really, I can’t. My feet are not my own, and they keep pounding, running away.
    I must still be asleep , I think. This has to be a dream , I pray .
    Sirens sound. Uniformed guards swarm the terminal, all of them running, charging, surrounding me with their barking dogs and angry glares. They speak to each other in rapid Adrian, shouting and pointing at me and my black bag. I drop it, but this just makes the guards jump. An older man approaches, his hand poised just above his belt.
    Just above his gun.
    Instinctively, I put my hands in the air.
    By now the other travelers have moved as far away from me as possible. Mothers are pulling their children closer. People caught among the chaos huddle together, terrified and staring. The woman who sat beside me on the plane is trembling and whispering to the people beside her, no doubt telling them that I had seemed so normal.
    Dangerous psychos always seem so normal.
    When I look back at the man, I realize that his hand is no longer poised over his sidearm. Instead, he is reaching for the handcuffs tucked into his belt. By the time his fingers brush against the metal I’m already on the ground.
    I don’t remember falling, but I know nobody pushed me. I simply crumbled. And now I lie on the floor, rocking, unable to stop.
    “Please don’t bind my hands. Please. Please don’t. I’ll do anything you want, but please—”
    “It’s okay, miss.” For the first time he’s not looking at me like I’m dangerous. He’s looking at me like I’m broken.
    It’s a look I know too well.
    *  *  *
    “What is your name, young lady?”
    “I don’t know. What does my passport say my name is?”
    Sarcasm is a bad idea. I know it. He knows it. But I have been in this room for two hours. Prior to this, I was on a plane for twelve. I’m too tired and hungry and in need of a shower to care anymore.
    “Which passport would that