Fake Identities

CHAPTER IX

"I knew I would see you again." This time a smirk made its way to his face.

"Samuel? I-"

"Shut the hell up, or I will make you." He looked to my direction and said, "You, Chloe Hernandez, will be punished for what you did before. Trying to kill your kidnapper is a very brave, dumb and dangerous move. I guess you got the dumb and dangerous part."

"Everyone ages. You got older. I got wiser. We will see who will win the game." I tried to look confident even though I was so afraid of what he would do if he found me. I know there is a big possibility of me dying than him but I don't want to go without a fight.

"I will find you. Just wait. Chloe, I promise to you, I will kill you myself."

"Correction, you will try to kill me yourself."

I ended the call and started packing clothes. I had to run away as far as possible. I sent a message Smith and Ryan telling them that I quit my job. I know Smith would do some kind of begging or threatening – more of the latter – so I switched my phone off and bought a new SIM card on my way to the airport. I booked a flight to London because before anything I have to save Sandra.

I bought a red hair dye and dyed my hair at my house before leaving to the airport. I asked Leah to find me a new passport and personality. She did because apparently boss decided to help me.

My new name is Ntombi Andersson. I am from a mixed-race family and I was born in South Africa and raised in Germany. I now am looking for my half-brother in the UK. I got my hair dyed black and braided then changed my eye colour back to a dark, almost black, brown eyes.

'Time to go, Ntombi Andersson" I said to myself before entering the private jet that Smith has provided.

I sat in the jet thinking of how I would live my life. One day I am Chloe Hernandez, the daughter of multimillionaire and his extremely beautiful Ethiopian wife. The other day, I am Phoebe Martin, an orphan who works as an CIA agent. Next time, I am Abigail White, the daughter of a loving father and sick, also loving, mother. And now I am a coloured kid from South Africa with a Xhosa mother and a Swiss father. Am I ever going to be a single person or will I live as multiple people every time people identify who I have been once?

After 11 hours of thinking, eating and sleeping, I arrived in London. If today was some years ago, I would be excited to be here. London is a place where I have always wanted to go to. I didn't love going to Paris, Rome or any other places my parents took me as much as I loved to go to London.

* * *

"Mom, can we go to London this year?"

"No, your aunt wants to go to Paris, we will go there."

"But she didn't ask us to go."

"Chloe, stop disturbing me, I said, 'we will go to Paris' we will go to Paris. Quit it!"

* * *

My mom is a very strong woman although she always respected my father's decision – no matter how much wrong it is. Her mother taught her to respect all men because they are stronger and better. She says that they have been ruling the world alone without us – women – intervening.

Her dad was abusive and drunk. You would have thought she would become an alcoholic or drug addict if you saw what her childhood looked like. I remember I once asked my mom why she always listens to what men say.

* * *

"Listen to me Chloe; I respect your father because he wouldn't think twice about his actions twice if I didn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I know your father or men like him. They are rich and they think they own us. They don't like it when we talk back at them, never mind disagree with their decisions. They will not just argue with you, they will hurt you and not think they did anything wrong." She took a long breath. "My father used to hit my mother a lot. He was an alcoholic and always abused her. I promised myself that I will never become like her."

* * *

"Hello, Miss Andersson, I have called a Taxi for you. I hope you would like your stay in the hotel we have chosen for you." A man with an incredible British accent said. He was so polite and his accent only added more manners to his words.

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

I entered the cab that the man called for me. I gave the driver the address of the said hotel and plugged my earphones to escape this hell hole I call reality. After a few minutes, the driver told me that we have arrived.

The hotel looks really good when you see it from outside but once you enter the room, everything is different. The room has a very tiny bed which you would think is for babies under the age of three. It has no closet. There is no place for walking or doing anything really. It just has a place for the bed. The shower is so short that I probably have to sit or crouch to wash my body.

* * *

"Mom, why can't we go to London?" Five-year-old I asked.

"It is because London is not a good place. You would not love it if you went there. You would hate it." My mom was just trying to shut me up. She knew that we couldn't go there because aunty has already gone there. Apparently we had to be everywhere my aunt is in. As a child, I never understood why.

* * *

The phone next to the bed rang.

"Good Evening, Miss Andersson. A man wants to talk to you." A woman with a Scottish accent said.

"Okay, let him," I said trying to make my accent a little bit less American and more African.

"Hold on a second."

After a moment, a deep voice spoke.

"Ntombi? What kind of name is that?"

"I beg your pardon."

"You could have been smarter."

"Samuel?" I gasped.