I start to stand, intending to just walk right up to the front, but the bus swerves, making me sway hard enough that I sit back down.
When I look up, I swear I can see the man under the mask glaring at me through the mirror.
I narrow my eyes, trying to make out the color again. But I’m too far away.
We make another turn, but this time, it’s wide, and we’re driving the wrong way down the street.
A few people let out screams, and I’m tempted to roll my eyes at them. Clearly this man is a good guy—or at least good in the sense that he just saved us. Even if he did do it by killing a bunch of people. He’s not kidnapping us from the kidnappers; he’s rescuing us.
Two of the wheels bump up onto the curb, and then we’re screeching to a stop in front of a large building surrounded by a large fence—I look out my window—with a large American flag flying in the courtyard between the gate and building.
The moment the bus comes to a complete stop, the man behind the wheel rises. “Get inside the fence.” He’s talking to the VP sitting in the front seat. “Tell them who you are.”
When my colleague doesn’t answer, the man in the ski mask leans toward him and shouts, “Now!”
When the VP nods, the man in the mask strides down the aisle.
“Get inside,” he commands the rest of us.
His voice is deep. Filled with intention.
It’s not exactly the same as the one that has whispered against my ear, but…
The man doesn’t stop when he passes me. Doesn’t even look at me. Just rushes past, kicks open the rear door, and jumps out.
There’s more shouting, only this time it’s coming from outside. From the armed American soldiers rushing toward the gate we’re parked in front of, and I realize that the man parked this way to get us as close as possible. To get us inside the US Consulate quickly, where it’s safe.
I push to my feet.
Everyone is moving now, staggering to the front of the bus, exiting with their hands up and running toward the gate.
But as soon as Suzanne gets up, I slide across the aisle and climb over her seat.
I press my face to her window. I need to see.
There’s too much street traffic. Too many cars and people.
I can’t…
Then I see him.
Dressed all in black, with his back to me, across the four-lane road, is a man heading into a narrow alley.
With my heart thundering behind my ribs and my blood pulsing between my legs, I watch him reach up and pull the ski mask from his head.
And I watch familiar long hair tumble free.
CHAPTER 60
Cassie
Just as the oven timer stops beeping, my phone starts ringing.
I throw down the hot mitts I was putting on and reach for my phone on the counter.
Seeing that it’s my mom, I almost don’t answer. They just left here an hour ago, after spending the entire day with me since picking me up from the airport.
“Hi, Mom.” I don’t hide all my exasperation.
“I know, I know, we were just there.” She repeats the thoughts I just had, and I can hear my dad sighing in the background. “I just wanted to check in, see if maybe you changed your mind.”
“Thank you, but no. I promise I’m okay.”
She spent the day trying to convince me to come spend the night, and tomorrow night and probably the rest of my life, with them in their little apartment.
I obviously refused.
It’s Saturday. I was supposed to fly home from Mexico yesterday, but after the whole bus highjacking on Thursday, the authorities made us stick around an extra day to give statements.
It was weird, and stressful, and long, and… confusing.
“Well, if you decide you want to come over, you are always welcome,” Mom reminds me.
“I know, Mom. But I just want to try and get back to normal.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am,” I sigh. “It was freaky.” Seeing three men die, and hearing more get shot, should be more than freaky… but that’s a worry for intrusive thoughts later. “But it’s not like I was personally targeted. No one is coming after me. And even if the guys who attacked us wanted to travel all the way to Minnesota to steal me, or whatever the plan was, they’re all dead,” I try to reason.
“Except the man in the mask,” Mom argues back.
I glance through the big picture window in my living room to Hans’s house. “He helped us, Mom.”
When we gave our statements, I lied. I told the police officers the man in the mask had blue eyes and tattoos on the visible part of his neck. And that the tiny bits of hair I could see in the mask eye holes were black.
I gave my parents the same description.
I don’t know why I lied.
No, that’s another lie.
I lied because a part of me believes that the man in the mask is Hans.
I still don’t understand how it’s possible. I only know what I saw and what I felt when I saw him. And if it is him… If there’s even a chance that the man who saved our lives on that stupid, sweaty bus was Hans, then I can’t let him get in trouble for it.
My coworkers were all pretty rattled, so I don’t know if any of them even noticed his long hair or his eye color, but my contradicting eyewitness should confuse matters enough that no one will come looking for my neighbor.
Mom exhales. “I know. I’m just worried about you being alone in that house.”
“I’ll be fine.” I roll my lips, then add, “If I need anything, Hans is just across the street.”
She makes a sound of agreement. “Okay, fine. I’ll let you go.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Good night, Cassie. I love you.”
My dad shouts his love through the phone.
“Love you both.”
Ending the call, I set my phone back on the counter.
I often wonder if having siblings would’ve made my parents less involved in my life, but I don’t think it would’ve mattered. They are who they are. And, annoying or not, it’s nice having people who care.
My eyes wander back to the front windows.
Hans doesn’t have that.
There’s obviously a lot I still don’t know about his past, most of it, really, but I know his parents are gone. I know his sister is gone. That she was murdered.
I bite my lip.
If it really was him in Mexico, if Hans really is the man who so swiftly and violently saved us, is that because of his past?
My nose twitches as an unpleasant scent hits it.
“Oh shit!” I spin around and snatch the hot mitts off the counter before yanking open the oven door.
A mixture of steam and smoke billows out, and I use the mitts to fan it away.
“Damn it.” Lifting out the tray, I can see the darkened edges around the too-flat cookies.
“No!” I whine, knowing I’ve burned them.
After shutting the oven door, I turn it off and set the tray on top of the stove.