THERE WERE POLICE CARS EVERYWHERE.
Irina hid in an alley a few blocks from the convenience store. Around her were small one-story homes, unkempt lawns, rusted cars. Dogs barked as she passed their yards, growled at her when she hid. She’d dropped her stolen food in the parking lot and she was still hungry, and very thirsty. She couldn’t find a car to steal.
And the police cars were everywhere.
She’d fled from the sirens at first. There hadn’t been many. She’d seen one police car speed past, and ducked behind a parked car to hide until it was gone. She kept moving. Time passed, an hour or so. Then, suddenly, more police cars appeared.
They knew.
Irina huddled in the alley and debated her options. The police would take her in. They would arrest her for attacking the black man, for defending herself, or they would bring her to the FBI. They wouldn’t let her go to Clearfield, Pennsylvania, to find Catalina.
Never mind. Irina knew there was no way she would get to Pennsylvania anyway, no matter the situation. She did not know how to drive on American roads. She didn’t know how to read American maps. She was a skinny, pitiful little wretch and no man would let her into his car. Her whole plan was silly, and she would be better off at the safe house instead of risking her life on these streets. She should go back to safety. She knew this.
Still, she was afraid. The police officers were men. Maybe they were corrupt. Maybe they would take her for themselves, the same way the man at the convenience store had wanted to do. She crouched in the alley, paralyzed by indecision. She didn’t hear the police cruiser roll up.
A door slammed. A man’s voice, harsh. Irina looked up to find a young policeman approaching, his hand on his holster. He’d taken the black man’s side, she realized. He would not be her ally. He would throw her in jail, or worse.
Irina stumbled to her feet. She tried to run, her legs unsteady. The cop was on her immediately. He grabbed her shoulder, rough. Spun her around. She swung at him. Kicked. Twisted away and kept running.
The cop chased her. She could hear him behind her, yelling at her. Yelling into his radio. More sirens. More police cars. His footsteps. She ran.
At the end of the alley, another police car appeared. Squealed to a stop and two more cops piled out, two more men. She was trapped.
They came at her rough, like she was the bad guy. Like she was the threat. They swarmed her, and she fought them, fists and feet. They caught her arms, held her back, and still she fought, swearing and spitting, struggling as they dragged her out of the alley and toward the patrol car.
Then someone called out, and they slowed. Their grips on her arms loosened. Irina followed their eyes to a flat gray sedan parked haphazardly in the middle of the road. A man, blond and muscular and good-looking in a black suit, approached them. She recognized him. Agent Mathers.
Mathers gestured to the cops, and they released her. She was tempted to run. Tempted to fight. The FBI agent held his hands out, palms up. Smiled at her. A friendly smile.
Still, she was tense as he came near her. She was ready to run. Then he leaned in, looked in her eyes, and told her, in awful Romanian, “I’m your friend. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She looked at him. He repeated himself, his accent atrocious, his pronunciation almost indecipherable. He smiled at her sheepishly, like he knew how bad he sounded, and Irina felt herself tense again as her body was racked with sudden, uncontrollable laughter.