A train rattles by. That’s the rumbling I’d heard inside through the open window. The place is soundproofed otherwise. We’re about a fifteen-minute drive outside the city and it’s noisy as hell out there. I look at the train, at the myriad of tunnels created by the elevated tracks. At the bums gathered around fires they’ve made in barrels. At the snow that’s begun to fall.
I send a text to Matthaeus telling him to send the men out to look for her. He confirms before I’ve even grabbed my wallet from on top of my jeans. I shove it into my pocket as I hurry through the warehouse, putting my shoulder holster in place, tucking the pistol into it. I throw on my coat and head out into the icy night to find her and bring her back.
6
Mara
It’s bitterly cold. I’m shivering as I make my way beneath the train tracks, not really sure where I am or if I’m even going in the right direction. But at least under here I’m partly shielded from the snow that is now coming down hard.
It’s getting darker too. I’ve only been walking for about twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. I have to ask where I am. How to get back to the hotel or I could be going in circles.
Cars speed past me and there are so many people. My hood is up, and I’ve got my hands shoved deep into the pockets, that hundred-dollar bill crumpled in my palm.
The trains that go by overhead are frighteningly loud. I hear another one coming and look up at the rumbling tracks, to see them vibrate with the weight of it. I back up a few steps to get out from under it, scared the whole thing will collapse on me. Suddenly, I’m stepping into a pile of sludge as the back of my boot hits the pavement and I go down on my butt on the curb. At least I didn’t land in the sludge.
Wet snow has gotten inside my boot and it’s cold. I dig some of it out. This close to the ground I swear I smell urine and other things I don’t want to think about. Someone laughs and I look up from my seated position to find three men huddled around a fire at the next corner. They’re watching me.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The man claiming to be Dante called me that, too. But it didn’t sound like this.
“Warm up,” one of them says. The other grins, showing a black hole where his teeth used to be.
I straighten, shake my head, turning fast, but crash right into another man.
“I’m sorry!” I start, bouncing back. The only reason I don’t fall is because someone else catches me from behind.
I look up at the first man, then turn around to the second. I pull out of his grasp. They’re heavily bearded, hair outgrown and dirty, smelly.
“Nothing to be sorry about, pretty girl.” He smiles. The teeth he still has are stained. He reaches out a dirty hand in worn gloves and fingers strands of my hair.
I back away a step, tug my hood back up.
The three in the far corner start to walk toward us and instinct takes over. I turn and run, only to hear the scream of horns when I do, the screech of brakes. I scream too, a car stopping inches from me.
One of the men behind me laughs and after a quick glance I charge across the street as the car window opens and the driver screams at me. I run for as long as I can without looking back, until I’m out of breath and have a cramp in my side. As I slow, I look over my shoulder sure the men are behind me. But the coast is clear. Just cars on the road and people rushing down the stairs from one of those platforms. A train must have just pulled in.
I stand there for a minute catching my breath, hand on my side. I look at the people in coats, some carrying briefcases, some talking into wireless earbuds in their ears. I follow a group of four women who walk down the street and enter a diner. I stop outside, my stomach rumbling at the smell wafting out, as the door swings closed. I’m so hungry. God, my stomach hurts.
The place is busy with people having food at the counter and sitting in the fifty’s style booths. Some have fancy drink glasses. The women are led to one of the few empty booths.
I take a deep breath in and walk toward the door, too. It chimes and I look up at the source of the sound. A little bell. I think everyone will turn to look at me, knowing I don’t belong here, but no one does. I step up to the counter and look at the meals the others are already eating. Plates of pasta or hamburgers and fries. My mouth waters but I don’t have time to eat. I need to hurry. This could all be a test. And I need to get to the hotel as fast as I can, or the punishment will be worse. Petrov is a sadist. He probably has someone watching me now and is gleefully counting the minutes. A stroke for each that he’ll make me count out. That’s one of his favorite punishments.
I look at the people around me, trying to work out which one works for him.
“What can I get you, hon?” a woman asks, and I turn to find a plump, middle-aged woman with graying blonde hair cleaning the counter before me. I feel that hundred-dollar bill in my pocket.
My stomach growls and I look behind her at the rows of candy and bags of chips.
“Um…” I point. “Chips please. And a candy bar.” I want warm food, but this will have to do.
She looks at me curiously for a moment and I wonder if it’s her. If she’s the one working for Petrov.
“Sure thing,” she says.
I take the now-crumpled bill out and set it on the counter. I push it toward her, and her eyebrows go up.
“That’s only a couple dollars. You don’t have anything smaller?”
I shake my head as I shove the candy bar into the pocket of my jeans and take the bag of chips. I hurry toward the door.
“Hold on there, honey.”
I stop, turn and it feels like everyone in the place is staring at me. I feel my face flush with embarrassment.
“Your change,” she says.
“Oh.” I walk back to the counter and shove the money she hands me into my pocket. “Do you know where The Hudson Hotel is?”
“The Hudson?” Her drawn-in eyebrows disappear into her hairline. “The swanky place in the city?”
I nod.
She looks me over. I look down at myself too and I’m sure she’s thinking someone like me doesn’t belong in a hotel like that. She’s right.
“You can take the train to Washington Street and it’s a couple of blocks walk from there.”
“Washington Street?”
She walks to the end of the counter toward the window and points up. “That one. East-bound. It’s about six stops.”
I look up, nod. “Thank you,” I say, and walk out into the cold as I open the bag of chips and cram a handful into my mouth. I hurry up the stairs to the platform where I just miss the train. I mutter a curse and duck under the shelter to try and keep dry.
7
Dante
I stand on the decrepit street trying to catch a glimpse of her. She only had maybe a ten or fifteen-minute head start on us, but she’s vanished. I look into alleyways and eye the bums huddling around their fires. I climb up and down the stairs of the trains wondering if she’s up there. She’ll be freezing in what she’s wearing, and I don’t even want to think about what would happen if she got herself cornered in one of these alleys. This is not the best neighborhood.