The current must have carried us farther away from the wreckage than I realized, because when Preston and I came up for air, I gasped and looked around—waiting—but no shots came.
In the distance, there was shouting.
“Cammie?” Preston said, his voice groggy. “What happened? Where am I?”
“We went for a little swim, Pres. And now we’ve got to go for a run.”
“I don’t feel so good.”
“I know, but you can do it. Come on. I’ll help you.”
Running down the streets of Rome, I didn’t dare stop to think about what we must have looked like. A tiny line of blood was smeared across Preston’s face. My wet hair was tangled and filled with broken glass. Blood ran into my eyes, and the sweatshirt we’d packed for Preston was two sizes too big and hung off him like a wet blanket.
Macey and Bex and Liz were on the other side of the river, running past an SUV with a pair of busted headlights, and I immediately knew what had caused the crash. As they passed, the SUV revved its engine and started chasing after them, swerving in and out of traffic. Other cars stopped, but the SUV just kept coming, plowing onto sidewalks, bursting through barricades.
“Run!” Bex yelled, her voice carrying across the river, and Preston and I didn’t have to be told twice.
I reached for Preston’s hand, dragging him away. But the motorcycles were already weaving across a bridge, rushing toward us. I heard the haunting, piercing wails of police cars and fire trucks. In less than two minutes our sinking truck would be surrounded by authorities. Cops and bystanders would fill the streets, searching.
The motorcycle engines revved.
We didn’t have two minutes.
Preston’s hand was too still. He was going into shock. Of course he was. He was human. He was just a boy, no matter who his father was. And I knew it was up to me to pull the ambassador’s son away from the sirens and the sinking truck, the motorcycles and the men who wouldn’t stop until they found us.
Preston was the asset. The Gallagher Girl part of me knew that getting him out of there was my job—my mission. “Let’s go,” I shouted.
“This way,” Preston said. We were on his home turf, and I let him drag me into an alley I’d never seen before. Laundry hung on lines overhead, blocking out the sun. And still we ran faster and faster, pushing aside the low-hanging sheets that floated around us like ghosts. And then we broke free of the alley and onto another street, light streaming all around us, and I knew where Preston was going.
“Is that the embassy?” I asked, already sure of the answer.
“Yeah. We’re almost there.”
Even drenched and freezing, shocked and terrified, Preston was stronger than he looked. It was all I could do to stop him.
“No!” I shouted, jerking his arm, pulling him out of the street.
“Cam, we’ll be safe at the embassy. It’s US soil. They can’t get us.”
“No, Preston.” I shook my head. I found his eyes. I had to make him see—make him understand. But not even the Gallagher Academy can teach you how to change somebody’s world, alter everything they’d ever thought was true.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he shouted. It went far beyond fear and rage and panic. Preston was desperate. And desperate people do desperate things. “It’s the Circle, isn’t it? They’re after us.”
“Yes.”
“Is it because of last summer? Because you stayed here? Did you leave something or—”
“The Circle isn’t after you, Preston. The Circle…it is you.”
“What do you mean?”
“When did you get your new bodyguards? Was it back before Christmas?”
He didn’t say a word, but the answer was written all over his face.
“A lot of strange things started happening then, didn’t they?” I asked him. “Murders of prime ministers…disappearances of bigwigs in the European Union… Strange things keep happening to powerful people. People whose families have been powerful for centuries. People whose ancestors used to follow the teachings of a man named Iosef Cavan.”
“No.” Preston shook his head. He eased away from me.