He had a point. Maybe he was in more danger with me than without me, but something told me that the men on our trail were the types who didn’t like to leave any loose ends behind, and right then, Preston’s dad wasn’t a powerful dignitary. He was a witness.
“No luck,” I told him, taking his hand. “You’re stuck with me. Now, run.”
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“The embassy.” I thought about the walls, the gates, the marines. Rule of thumb: when in doubt, find a marine. “It’s a quarter of a mile away.”
“This is faster,” he said, pointing to a secluded alley.
“No, Ambassador. We need crowds. Crowds are good,” I said. And I meant it; but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard trying to slip between the crush of bodies, going against the current.
“There, Cammie.” Mr. Winters pointed to a police officer walking our way.
“He’s with them,” I said.
“How do you—”
“Shoes,” I whispered, and pulled Preston’s dad behind a stall, slipping out of the fake officer’s path. “He’s wearing the wrong shoes.”
“Oh…” The ambassador’s voice was more like a whimper, and I hated myself for bringing my trouble to his doorway. “What did you mean, Cammie? When you said you were forgetting a lot lately?”
“I sort of have…amnesia.” I spat out the word and shook my head. “I don’t remember last summer.”
“Just last summer?” he asked.
“Yeah. I know it sounds crazy and all but—”
“No.” He wiped the sweat on his upper lip. Blood stained his sleeve. “Nothing really sounds crazy to me anymore.”
I’d never thought about the things a person must see when they’re a footstep away from the presidency. All good spies know that ignorance really is bliss. Mr. Winters looked like a man who knew things he truly wanted to forget.
I totally knew the feeling.
“Just a little bit farther,” I told him when we left the market. The crowds were thinner on the broad, public street. I could see the embassy up ahead. “Ambassador?” I said, studying the blood that ran down his hairline. “Ambassador, stay with me. We’re almost—”
But that was when I saw the van, big and white and coming far too fast. I should have run. I should have screamed. I should have done anything but stand there, locked in a memory of the year before, in Washington, D.C., as the Circle came for me the second time.
“Cammie,” the ambassador said, shaking me. “Cammie, this way.”
He was trying to pull me away from the van that had screeched to a halt in between us and the embassy. The door was sliding open. I wasn’t sure where reality stopped and memory began. But it wasn’t a grab team—not anymore. They didn’t need me alive.
And then I heard the music, low and steady in the back of my mind. I started to sway. To hum.
To run.
“Open the gates!” I yelled, pulling the ambassador behind me.
A man was out of the van and coming closer, so I lowered my shoulder, rammed him as hard as I could, and never broke stride.
“Open the gates!” I yelled through the crowded street.
Everyone was turning, watching. The ambassador’s arm was draped around my shoulders as I half pulled, half carried him toward the imposing building.
“The Ambassador,” I yelled to the marines at the gates. “The Ambassador has been injured!”
I don’t know whether it was my words or the sight of the man limping and bleeding, but the gates opened.
There were guards and marines, and a final, fading rev of a motorcycle engine as I dragged Preston’s father past the fences, safely onto American soil.