The Survivor - Cristin Harber Page 0,17

grand piano and swiped the message open. Tears swelled in her eyes again as she reread the message. Her friends would have fun tonight. They’d drink. They’d flirt with guys. Maybe they’d do more. But like always, Amanda would be at home, surrounded by books, art, and fancy things she wasn’t allowed to touch.

Not tonight. She would join her friends. She’d be someone else. A normal teenager.

Easier said than done, though. Surveillance didn’t track the family through the residence, though the Secret Service kept tabs. After stopping by her bedroom to fix her makeup, she set off to escape.

Mandy hadn’t made it to the first floor before Agent McNally fell into line behind her. She didn’t exactly have a plan and decided the best course of action was simple bullheaded determination. She walked through the halls as if there weren’t an agent trailing behind. They weren’t her babysitters and couldn’t tell her what to do. Their jobs were simple: ward off the bad guys who thought that killing the First Daughter might send a political message.

Mandy stepped by the Marine who stood at the exterior door, then hurried onto the portico drive. An exhilarating rush tingled down her arms. Freedom had never been this easy.

She reached the north gate. The agent behind the bulletproof glass had obviously been alerted of her arrival. Unlike the Marine by the door, he didn’t act like a statue, and Mandy didn’t miss his semi-impassive expression that jumped to McNally. “Good evening, Ms. Hearst.”

“Good evening.” She tried for a casual smile, then eyed the still-locked gate. Another second crawled by. “I’m going for a walk.” Her stomach tied in knots. Had her parents been informed? She’d die of embarrassment if orders were given to keep her inside the grounds. She focused on the gate, willing it to fly off the hinges—the locking mechanism released. Victory! She could hardly breathe. “Thanks.”

With false bravado and a wild rush of adrenaline, she stepped into the real world. A small group of tourists gawked from the sidewalk across from Lafayette Park. A businessman on his phone stumbled off the curb. Suddenly, Mandy realized how not in control she was. Just like always.

“Mandy.” McNally stepped toward her side. “Let’s head back and take a walk on the grounds.”

Mandy glanced toward the East Wing. She didn’t know how many snipers were stationed on the roof, but she was certain her unplanned stroll had caused them to reposition. Her cell phone buzzed, and she checked the text message instead of looking at the agent in the eye.

Pictures of her friends—her crush—scrolled onto her phone. Only one word accompanied the text.

Coming?

A light flashed. Mandy jerked from her phone. Agent McNally held up her hands to block a man taking her picture. “Give the kid her privacy.”

Mandy snorted. As if that could ever happen. She strode down Pennsylvania Avenue without a clue of how to get to Jaime’s house. First, she’d have to catch a taxi. She eyed 15th Street like it might be her salvation.

“Mandy.” McNally’s Mama Bear tone warned her not to take her newfound freedom too far.

She glanced over her shoulder. Another handful of agents had arrived, warily watching Mandy as though she were a ticking time bomb. She swallowed hard and tried to play it cool. “You’re welcome to come with me.”

“Give us a few minutes to make arrangements.”

Mandy closed her eyes, not sure if she would cry or scream. Her Doc Martens anchored her to the sidewalk. “I don’t want anyone to make arrangements.” She stared at the smooth, worn sidewalk, whispering, “I want to disappear.”

“Mandy!” a child called. “Can we have a picture?”

She wrangled her emotions, nodded to McNally, and forced herself to smile. Two girls ran to her side. Their mother thanked Mandy before, during, and after she snapped the picture. After a moment of polite small talk, Mandy turned to see Dylan jogging their way. “Wow,” she muttered. “They’ve called in for reinforcements.”

“Hey, Sparkler.” He reached her side and urged her to keep moving. “Where are we headed?”

She dragged her feet and eyed his street clothes. She’d never seen him off duty before. A light sheen of sweat peppered his temples, and she snorted. He must’ve run from wherever he’d been. She pictured him grabbing a beer with friends, or maybe just doing something totally, amazingly dull.

Dylan repeated his question.

“Nowhere,” she mumbled.

“Obviously.” He picked up the pace, then glanced over his shoulder. “You coming?”

She caught up—otherwise, someone might have scrambled F14s or swooped in with a