All Fall Down

by Ally Carter

  “We might have put a tracker on you,” she says.

  “You might have what?”

  Megan holds up a tiny device. “GPS location receiver. I put a transmitter in your sweater.” She eyes the ratty cardigan that I’ve been taking with me everywhere these days. “You really should clean that sometime, you know.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Well, for starters, there’s a stain on the sleeve that’s been there since —”

  I cut Megan off. “Why were you following me?”

  “Oh. That,” Megan says. For a moment, the three of them are silent.

  “Well, see …” Noah starts slowly. “Last night, Megan called me.”

  “And Noah called me,” Rosie interjects.

  “We were sort of …” Noah is struggling for words.

  “You’re freaking us out,” Megan says bluntly.

  “You’re worried about me?” I ask.

  “Well, yeah,” Noah says, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

  “I don’t need your worry,” I snap. “And I don’t want your pity.”

  I’m pushing through them, starting back toward the door and the tunnels and the answers I’m no closer to finding.

  “Maybe not,” Megan yells. “But you need our help.”

  I freeze. And then slowly — very slowly — I turn. “Well, maybe I don’t want it.”

  There’s something that comes from being the girl who is always left behind. I could only watch Jamie and Alexei disappear without me so many times before I got really good at convincing myself that I was better off alone.

  But I wasn’t left alone, I realize now.

  I was left with Megan.

  “He’s going to do it again,” Megan says. “That’s what you said last night, isn’t it? That the man who killed your mother is going to kill somebody else?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I say, then glare at Noah so hard that he actually pulls Rosie in front of him, a human shield.

  “You think you’re the only one who’s ever lost someone?” Megan snaps. There is ice in her voice. “Do you think you’re the only one who has ever wanted to make somebody pay?”

  I’ve never heard her talk like this, seen her look like this. She is nothing like Lila now. And she’s nothing like the little girl who used to bring over her Barbies, either. It’s like everything else has been camouflage. This is the Megan she has spent her whole life hiding. And for the first time in all the years I’ve known her, I realize that I have never heard Megan talk about her dad.

  “Besides,” she says flatly, “you do need us.”

  “I don’t need you,” I say.

  “Says the girl who has wasted an entire day wandering around in circles down here,” she says.

  “I know these tunnels better than anyone.” Rosie sounds almost hurt. “Maybe if you’d asked me, I could have saved you a day.”

  “I have the resources of two embassies behind me,” Noah says. “You really think you’re better off without me?”

  I roll my eyes, look at Megan. “I’m a genius,” she says. Everyone turns to her. “Well, I am. No use trying to soft-pedal it. Plus, my mom’s a spy. Any of you pick up covert-operations training in summer camp? Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

  She has a point and, genius that she is, I’m sure she already knows it.

  “So are you going to tell us now?” Rosie asks. She’s looking up at me with those huge blue eyes. It’s like she’s asking me to tuck her into bed, tell her a story. “Grace, what happened last night?”

  I’m looking at the three of them. They really are here. And they really aren’t going anywhere.

  I could think of a dozen reasons to send them away — a hundred. It isn’t safe. It isn’t their fight. Their parents could lose their jobs if someone were to catch us. The reasons are bubbling up on my tongue. But I can’t bring myself to say them.

  Instead I blurt, “I followed the Scarred Man.”

  I wait for someone to object, but no one says a thing.

  “You know when he disappeared the other day?” I ask Rosie. “Well, I figured out that he must have come down here. Into the tunnels.”

  “Of course!” Rosie sounds so mad at herself. “I’ve only ever come in through the public entrances where they give tours and stuff. I never knew there were hidden entrances. I should have guessed. I’m sorry, Grace.”

  “Don’t be,” I tell her. “So … yesterday. I was following him again when he came down here. We walked for a long time and then he went up into some building.”

  “What building?” Megan asks.

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’ve been doing all day — trying to retrace our steps. But I can’t find it.”

  “Why do you need to find it?” Noah asks. “What did you see?”

  “I followed him inside. He was meeting someone. I couldn’t tell who, but they were talking about killing someone. He said — and I quote — ‘There are many perfectly adequate ways to die.’ And he just has to find one.”

  For a moment there is nothing in the basement but the echo of the Scarred Man’s words and the drip, drip, drip of the water into the pool. It’s like sand through an hourglass, a steady, constant reminder that I’m running out of time.

  “And you don’t know what building you were in?” Megan asks.

  “No,” I snap in frustration.

  “What did it look like?” she asks.

  “Like a building! Carpet. Doors. Lights.”

  “Was it one of the embassies? Did you see any signs or books in any languages that you might have recognized?” Noah tries.

  “I saw a door and a shadow and the man who killed my mother telling someone he has another assignment!”

  “But if we knew —” Megan starts.

  “I don’t know who. I don’t know when. I just know that he is going to kill again.”

  “No, he’s not,” Rosie says. She gives a wide, defiant grin.

  “Yeah,” Noah says. “Because we’re going to stop him.”

  It’s the right thing to say — the perfect line. They’re trying so hard to sound convincing, but I’m not convinced. I know too much. I have seen too much. I have lost too much.

  And now I look at the three faces that stare back at me, praying I don’t have to lose anyone else.

  When we leave that night, Rosie claims that she can walk on her hands all the way from Iran to Italy. Megan stays beside her, counting her steps, watching her tiny feet as they stay freakishly steady and straight in the air, but Noah and I walk up ahead. For a moment, we are alone.

  “So,” I say, “I hear you’re a football stud.”

  Noah laughs. “You would be confusing me with my father,” he says, then reconsiders. “Except, wait. No one has ever confused me with my father, so never mind.”

  “Are you good?” I ask.

  Noah shrugs. “I’m okay.”

  “Lila says you’re good. And Lila doesn’t strike me as the type to overestimate your virtues.”

  “Lila wants me to be good because that would mean I could stop being … me.”

  “With you being defined as …”

  “Man about town. Man of mystery. Man of many talents. Really a James Bond type with a bevy of beautiful women all eager to help me stop an international incident.”

  “A bevy, huh?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Noah says. “I’m dangerous, is what I’m saying, Grace.” He gives me an oh-so-serious stare. “I have a license to kill.”

  “Good to know,” I say. Noah laughs.

  “Of course I usually kill through general incompetence and family disappointment.”

  “I know the feeling,” I say, and then it hits me: the enormity of what I’m asking — of the risk we’re taking. “Why are you doing this, Noah?” I ask before I even know the words are coming.

  Noah looks at me, stunned. “What do you mean? I’m your friend. Friends help each other when they are … you know … going up against international
hit men and stuff.”

  “Maybe that’s a bad idea. Maybe you don’t want to be my friend,” I tell him, but Noah just smirks.

  “Too late. Besides, I know you’d never leave me alone if I was going to do something stupid.”

  “Maybe I would.”

  “And you’d never lie to me.” He runs a hand through his black hair, pushing it back, making it even spikier than usual. “That’s why my parents broke up. Maybe it’s because of their jobs or whatever, but they always had to keep things from each other. There were so many secrets and lies. You have no idea how much I hate it when people lie to me.”

  I should tell him, I think. I should tell him about what I saw the night Mom died and what came after. About the Scarred Man and the Scarred Men. I should tell him not to trust me, not to like me, not to believe a word I say because there are moments late at night when I can’t even believe myself.

  But I can’t say any of those things. I can’t bring myself to drive Noah away even though I know in my gut I probably should.

  The marines are watching the street when we reach the US gates. I can see the light burning in my grandfather’s office. If he knows I’ve been gone all day, I doubt he cares. “Well, good night, Noah.”

  “Good night, Grace.”

  He starts toward Israel, then stops and calls, “Hey, Grace …”

  “Yeah?”

  His hands are in his pockets and the moonlight shines across his face. “Between you and me, I’m not as good as Lila says.”

  “Okay.”

  His smirk grows into an extremely cocky grin. “I’m better.”

  He turns and leaves. I just smile after him, thinking, I totally knew it.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Honestly, I don’t know what’s more worrisome: what Megan is saying or that she’s saying it with Barbies. But maybe the most shocking thing is how utterly un-Megan-like Megan is being in this moment.

  She’s wearing a black tank top and baggy camouflage cargo pants and has a yellow highlighter stuck through her belt like a knife. Most of her glossy black hair is tucked up into a ski cap, but a few strands peek out. A decent portion of them are now a very dark shade of fuchsia.

  “Is that permanent?” I ask, reaching out to touch her new pink hair before she slaps my hand away.

  “I’m trying something new,” she says, undaunted. She points to Barbie’s Dream House and says, “We enter through the skylight in the master bedroom. Here.”

  Rosie points to the Barbie jeep and says, “Where are we going to get our mobile observation unit?”

  “Noah’s going to borrow his mom’s van,” Megan says.

  Rosie nods, but Noah just says, “I am?”

  “You are,” Megan says. “Now does anyone have any questions?”

  “Who are you?” I ask. “And what have you done with Megan?”

  But she just cuts her eyes at me.

  “Now, we can’t be sure about the exact layout of Dominic’s place, but judging from the plans on file with the historical preservation society, that block of row houses was reconstructed after the war, and the following changes were allowed. The skylight is our window. Pardon the pun. So —”

  “I’m not sure about this,” I say. I look through Barbie’s skylight at the friendship bracelets that are serving as rappelling cables, the unicorn stickers that represent cameras.

  “The plan is solid,” Megan says. “This is our chance and we have to take it.”

  “I know that, but if one of you gets hurt, I will never forgive myself.”

  “If one of us gets hurt?” Megan shoots back. “Have you forgotten that you overheard him saying that he is supposed to kill somebody? What if the Scarred Man’s target is my mom? Did you think of that? Or Rosie’s dad? Or one of Noah’s parents? What if it’s your grandfather he’s after, Grace? Is it too risky then?”

  She’s like a little camo-clad machine gun as she talks. A little camo-clad machine gun who has a point.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Good.” Megan nods. “Let’s go.”

  Darkness looks different in Adria than in anyplace else on earth. The flickering yellow of the streetlight mixes with the too-bright white of the moon. I look up and watch it bounce off the tile roofs of the narrow houses that stand side by side at attention. There are iron balconies and window boxes filled with white flowers. It’s like something from a postcard — from a dream.

  All but one house in the row.

  It keeps its shutters pulled tight even on the prettiest of days. Its locks have been upgraded and the owner never, ever sits on the stoop and talks and laughs like the other people on the block. This man comes and goes at irregular hours, and no one ever gets asked inside.

  It looks like a row house.

  It feels like a fortress.

  At 11:00 p.m., the buildings appear dark gray against an inky-blue sky. The colors are too rich, though. Almost like watching a cartoon. But it’s no drawing — certainly not the dark figure that dashes across the rooftops, swooping and jumping like a low-flying bird. When it does a full twist mid-jump, I know the bird is just showing off.

  “Focus, Rosie,” I say, forgetting that she can hear me.

  “I need to concentrate here, Grace,” she replies, and I startle. There are always too many voices in my head. I really didn’t need three more. But Megan insisted we wear the little earbuds that she smuggled out of the security center of the embassy. I’ve been back less than two weeks, and already I’ve turned the sweetest girl on Embassy Row into a thief and a conspiracy theorist. Even for me, it is an impressively quick act of corruption.

  “Okay, guys.” Rosie sounds slightly out of breath but more alive than I’ve ever heard her. “I’m at our entry point. Waiting for your go.”

  And now I’m certain of two things.

  1. We might actually try this ridiculous thing.

  2. We all watch entirely too many movies.

  Megan picks up a small tablet that shows a closed-circuit feed of the prime minister’s office. Standing at attention not far from the PM’s side is the Scarred Man.

  “Are we clear?” Rosie asks again.

  “Go. Go. Go,” Megan says.

  Noah and I look at each other, then both reach for the doors of the van. In a flash, we’re out and crossing the street.

  Megan has explained the basics. The rest I know from my dad.

  Breaching a secure location isn’t about speed. It’s about efficiency. Going fast won’t do you any good if you spend half your time turning over floor lamps and setting off alarms.

  So I know what to do. I know how to do it. After all, we’ve gone over it a dozen times. I’ve seen it in my sleep a dozen more. But it feels like someone else is inside my body — like I am watching from afar — as Noah, Megan, and I walk across the street.

  On the off-chance the neighbors are watching, we walk and do not run. I laugh like a normal girl would (but not too loudly) and talk to my friends (but not too excitedly) and, most of all, I watch the small window in the door of the house that is almost always dark. When the top of a tiny head appears there, I’m ready.

  The door swings open.

  “What took you so long?” Rosie says with a wink.

  The light on the security system is blinking red. A beeping sound is counting down. But Megan already has a tiny device out and is doing something to the keypad on the wall by the door. I see numbers spiraling across the screen, running through a sequence one by one, pecking out the code.

  And still the chime keeps beeping.

  “Megan …” Noah warns.

  “Just a —” Another beep comes, longer, louder. Then it stops. “Got it.” Megan practically exhales the words, then leans against the wall and takes a deep breath. For the first time, she looks as terrified as Noah.

  “Nice system.” Rosie sounds impressed.

  Noah turns, taking in the first floor. “Not a nice place.”

  He has a point. For all the security t
he Scarred Man has, you would think he’d be protecting art. Jewels. At the very least some high-end electronics. But the narrow room in which we stand has a fireplace and one very worn chair. There are no books on the shelves. We walk on and find very little food in the kitchen.

  “It’s like a safe house,” Megan says.

  “But it’s his house,” Noah adds. It’s easy to forget that, according to public records, the Scarred Man has lived here for ten years.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s split up and do this. I want us out of here fast.”

  No one complains. No one asks any questions. Megan goes to work on the computer, and Rosie climbs onto Noah’s shoulders and starts installing cameras in the light fixtures and smoke detectors.

  “What should I do?” I ask Megan.

  “Don’t break anything,” she tells me.

  I wish I had a job — something to do — but the truth is, I would be useless at it. Megan isn’t just smart about computers. She knows this about me, too. I am in the Scarred Man’s house, and all I can do is look at the bed, thinking, The man who killed my mother sleeps here. In the bathroom, I look into the mirror and imagine his face staring back at me. The face that I saw through the smoke and the fire. The face that has haunted me for years.

  Carefully, I run my fingers across the top of the dresser. A little loose change lies on the table by the bed. In his walk-in closet there are five dark suits, identical in cut, and seven white shirts all fresh from the dry cleaner and still in their plastic bags. It looks more like a hotel room than a home. Like he fully expects to pack everything up and be gone at a moment’s notice. Like he knows that someday the ghosts will catch up to him.

  He just doesn’t know today is that day.

  I don’t feel any pain as my fingernails dig into my palms. There is no blood, just a steady, constant throbbing to tell me that I am still alive. I am alive but my mother is dead. And I’m in the home of the man who killed her.

  “Oh no.”

  Megan’s voice isn’t quite a shout, and that is why it’s scary.

  “What is it?” Noah asks.

  “We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go now.”