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He nods tersely. “And where are you going from there?”
The answer is on the tip of my tongue when the first alarm bell sounds in my brain.
“You’re with TSA, not Border Patrol, right?” I smile again, but it’s thin this time. Like tea so weak you can see straight to the bottom of the cup. I’m sure they can sense my unease now.
“Just answer the question,” the man in the corner barks. He crosses his arms and shifts in front of the door. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s sending me a subliminal message, blocking my way out.Answer, or you aren’t getting out of here.
I want to ignore the not-so-subtle threat, but not being able to see the door makes the room feel even smaller. Panic clamps around my chest, and I have to work hard to inhale. “I’m going to meet up with some friends.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure yet.” It’s getting harder to speak between my stiff lungs and clenched teeth.
Alarm bells are ringing. Red flags are waving.
Something isn’t right.
“You are going to another country without an idea of what you’re doing when you get there?” He arches a skeptical brow.
“I guess I’m living on the edge.”
My answer doesn’t exactly endear me to these men. I’m pretty sure nothing I say will endear me to them. In fact, I’m pretty sure they are very specifically working against me.
I just don’t understand why.
“Now is not the time to be cute.” My interrogator scowls. “Who are you going to see when you arrive in Mérida?”
“I told you. Friends.”
“Do these friends have names?”
My heart is racing and my hands tremble. It’s getting hard to tell if I’m feeling this way because of claustrophobia or because something in this situation is seriously wrong.
Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe this is normal.Even as the thoughts enter my mind, though, I dismiss them.
No.This isn’t normal.
“I don’t understand why you need their names,” I tell him as evenly as I can. “They aren’t getting on a plane. I am. My name is—”
“Piper Quinn.” The man by the door winks when I look up at him, which is a jarring change of pace from how this has gone so far. “We know your name, sweetheart.”
“Okay.” I grasp the arms of my chair and brace to stand. “I’m done answering questions. I want to speak to your manager. Or supervisor. Or…whoever.”
Nice. Very smooth. Very authoritative.
Still, I hold my head up high, meeting each of their eyes as I stand. “This is not appropriate or warranted. I want to speak to someone else.”
The first “agent” hooks his arm around the back of his chair. He’s grinning at his cohorts. “Did you hear that, boys? She wants to talk to the boss.”
“I’ll bet she does.”
“She’d like that, wouldn’t she?”
I don’t understand the joke. I definitely don’t appreciate it. But I’m losing steam as the old, familiar fear starts to squeeze my throat closed.
Their voices are coming from every direction now. The room is blurring before my eyes, and I inhale and exhale deeply, trying to clear my vision. Panic is taking over. In a second, my vision will narrow to pinpricks. I’ll be bent over, gasping for breath. I won’t stand a chance against whatever these agents—if they even work for the TSA—have planned.
“I’ll call the—the p-police.” I pull my phone out of my back pocket.
