All Fall Down

My first thought as I hit the ground is that I’m free. My second is that I am anything but safe. And I know the worst thing that Ms. Chancellor and the Scarred Man have taken from me. It wasn’t my freedom. It was my confidence. They made me doubt myself. And now the whole world doubts me, too.

 

I am the Girl Who Cried Wolf. And now I am the only one who can save the lambs.

 

My feet ache as I run down the hill toward the park. One lands between the cobblestones and my ankle turns. But I don’t fall. I just keep running.

 

The crowd is growing thicker now, the closer that I get to the bleachers and the grassy lawn. I can hear the music stop. The speeches are starting. Soon, the president and all the other world leaders will take the stage. The Secret Service will be there, yes, but they won’t be looking to protect the president from their counterparts from Adria. After what happened at the embassy, they probably won’t dare challenge the Scarred Man in any way, lest they risk another international incident.

 

So I run faster.

 

There are barricades. People fill the street. I push and claw, but I can’t get closer.

 

“Let me through!” I try. “I have to get through!”

 

But it’s no use. Even if I could fight the crowds, there would be no getting behind the barriers, no pleading with the Secret Service. I have to reach my grandfather. I have to warn him about Ms. Chancellor and the Scarred Man. I have to make him see. Somehow.

 

I know exactly where the nearest tunnel entrance is. I’m not afraid as I slip inside the darkness and feel my way along the tunnel, to a place that will probably be behind the barricades. There is an opening overhead. I have no idea what lies above me, but I know it’s my only way. So I climb and open it, peek slowly out, take a deep breath and try to get my bearings.

 

Even with the setting sun, it’s too dark here. I must be underneath the bleachers because there are rafters above me. I can hear the muffled sound of the prime minister’s amplified voice. To my right, there is something of a staging area in the distance. I can see cars coming and going, lots of big guys in dark suits. Everyone in that area either moves with incredible efficiency and purpose or stands perfectly still. No loitering. No lingering. This is where the Important People gather, and now I am among them.

 

There is some applause from the masses. When it dies down, I can hear the flags that line the promenade cracking in the breeze.

 

There is only one thing to do — one thing that matters. I will find the Scarred Man. I will find him and then —

 

I don’t let myself think about that.

 

“You shouldn’t be here, Grace.”

 

I feel the Scarred Man’s breath on my neck, hear his voice in my ear. And I know I haven’t found him; he’s found me.

 

I know it is far too late to run.

 

But somehow I’m not terrified. I don’t tremble with fear but with rage.

 

“You can’t kill me, can you?” I ask, proud that I have figured out that much.

 

“No.” I can feel him shake his head slowly. “I can’t kill you.”

 

“Because, if you could, I’d be dead already.”

 

“Yes. I’m afraid you would be.”

 

The words should sound menacing. Terrifying. They should make me want to run, but I just stand there, demanding answers. I feel that I have earned them.

 

But the Scarred Man doesn’t give me answers. Instead, he picks me up. Faster than Jamie, stronger than my father when he tries to teach me to punch and kick. The Scarred Man isn’t playing, and before I can stop him, I’m over his shoulder and he is carrying me away from the people who fill the staging area, from the Secret Service and the guards.

 

When I push up on his shoulder, I can see the stage getting smaller. I can hear the speeches getting softer. The Scarred Man is carrying me farther and farther from help.

 

But to me, there is only one fact that matters.

 

My grandfather is on that stage. The Russian president will be nearby. Whoever the Scarred Man’s target is, we are getting farther and farther away from them as well. And I am grateful for the distance. It might be the only way that I can keep them safe.

 

“Where are you taking me?”

 

His voice is cold. “Away.”

 

When we turn a corner, he drops me then points toward one of the tunnel entrances, and says, “In there. Hurry.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere with you!”

 

“Grace,” he snaps, holding me still, making me look him in the eye. “Stop fighting. Please. Just listen. Look. See?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of papers. There’s a US passport with my picture, but somebody else’s name. Someone else’s address. A birth certificate. And a second passport, this one with his picture.

 

“Why do you have these?” I shout. “What are you doing?”

 

“Take them. Go! Head back to the embassy and wait for —”

 

“No! I’m not going to leave and let you kill someone. I’m not … Why do you have a passport with my picture on it?” I can feel my anger fading, confusion rising in its wake.

 

“We don’t have time for this, Grace.” When he reaches for me again, his jacket gapes open, revealing the gun in his holster. I’m not thinking now. I’m acting on instinct, driven by fear as I pull the gun from his holster and hold it toward him.

 

“Back off. Get away from me. I’ll do it!” I shout. My hands don’t shake. The gun feels light as air. My nerves are steady, even. “I will pull this trigger.”

 

The Scarred Man’s eyes are wide. It’s almost like he’s confused, but then his gaze falls to the ground and he whispers, “I know.”

 

It’s the way he says it — the look on his face. There is no rage, no guilt. Just pity and … love. He is remembering someone he loved.

 

“What aren’t you telling me?” I scream.

 

“You really don’t remember, do you?”

 

“Remember what?” I say.

 

The Scarred Man brings a finger to the jagged line that runs from his eye to his jaw. “The night that I got this.”