My hands shake. “This is real,” I say. “This is actually happening.”
Julian cups my face, forcing me to look at him. His touch is steady, grounding. “I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “But we have to move. Now.”
We slip out through the service exit into a narrow alley behind the hotel. The city sounds different already. Gone is the quiet calm I’m used to. Instead, there are sirens, helicopters, and distant shouting.
Julian leads me through the back streets like he’s walked them a hundred times. He keeps me close, always holding my hand while steering and shielding.
“Why do you know where you’re going?” I demand between breaths.
“Because I plan,” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting right now.” We pass a closed bakery with broken windows. It must have happened recently because shards of glass cover the sidewalk. Julian takes a sharp turn, tugging me behind him down a narrow alley. Behind thebakery, there’s a white sedan parked at an angle. Well, not exactly parked because both the driver and passenger side doors are wide open.
Julian pushes me into the passenger side and closes the door behind on my questions and protests. He jogs around to the other side, head constantly swiveling, watching our surroundings, including rooftops. Within moments of slipping into the driver’s seat, he hot-wires the car and we’re on our way. He’s driving the shift-stick car like he’s a professional racecar driver.
“What the fuck?” I say. “Do they teach you this in diplomat school?”
He smirks. “They do in the UK.”
As we pull into traffic, my phone explodes with messages. Editors. My best friend, April. “What do I tell them?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Julian says. “Phones go dark.” He reaches across the center console, plucks the phone out of my hands, and chucks it out the window.
“What? No…”
“Iris.” He glances at me sharply. “If they’re tracking targets, your phone is a beacon.”
His phone rings and answers without hesitation. “Cross.”
“Why do you get to keep your phone?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes at me, but then turns serious as he listens to whoever is on the other side of the line. “Yes.”
There’s a long pause, and his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Understood.” He hangs up.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“We’re heading to a safe house.” It’s becoming very clear that this man is no regular diplomat.
“Please tell me what’s going on. Tell me who you are.”
He shoots me a quick look, and there’s some of the old warmth in his eyes. “I’ll give you the answers I can, as soon as we are safe.”
I nod and sit back, letting him focus on driving.
He drives the compact car hard, weaving through streets clogged with panicked traffic. Military vehicles roar past us, flags snapping from their hoods and roofs.
The safe house is a small cottage on the outskirts of town. It’s hidden behind what looks to be abandoned sheds and commercial buildings.
Julian makes me stand outside while he does a safety check. When he finally allows me inside, I sag against the wall, adrenaline crashing. “So,” I say weakly, “this is where you tell me you’re actually a spy.” He closes the door, locks it, then turns to face me. “Iris…”
Before he can finish, his phone buzzes again.
He answers. Listens. Then swears and hangs up.
“What?” I ask.
