Page 102 of Omar

"Miss Asha." The first man opened the back door wider. "Please."

Please. Like he was holding a door open at a restaurant. Like this was hospitality instead of a kidnapping.

I looked at the sedan, the two men, the empty street. Omar was at APEX. Nene was at the apartment. Nobody knew I'd gone to the bodega. I'd left without telling anyone because it was two blocks and I'd been doing it for days without incident.

I got in the car.

The door closed behind me and the locks clicked. All four doors at once, a sharp metallic sound that went through me like a current. The first man got in on the other side, wedging me into the middle of the back seat between his body and the door. The second man got in the front passenger seat. The driver pulled away from the curb without a word.

I was pressed between the door and a man I didn't know, my shoulders touching both surfaces, the groceries on my lap crushing against my stomach. The man beside me was big enough that his thigh was against mine. His hands were folded in his lap, relaxed, like he was riding the subway. He didn't look at me.

The car turned left, then right, then left again. I tried to track the streets through the tinted windows but the glass was dark enough that the block numbers were hard to read. We passed a laundromat I recognized, then a church I didn't. Crown Heights, maybe. Or the border between Crown Heights and Prospect Heights. I wasn't sure and the uncertainty made my stomach drop because if I didn't know where I was going then I couldn't tell anyone where to find me.

My phone was in my back pocket, pressed against the seat. I was sitting on it. Even if I could reach it without the man beside me noticing, who would I call? Omar was at APEX. Nene was at the apartment. Either of them would get the message too late. I'd already be wherever these men were taking me.

The bag of groceries sat on my lap. Rice, chicken, vegetables. I'd been planning to make dinner. I'd been thinking about seasoning while I walked back from the bodega, whether I had enough garlic, whether Omar would want rice or pasta. Normal thoughts. Safe thoughts. Twenty minutes ago I was a woman walking home with groceries. Now I was a woman in the back of a sedan with the doors locked and a stranger's thigh against mine heading somewhere I couldn't identify.

The absurdity of it pressed against my chest alongside the panic. I was being kidnapped and I was still holding a plastic bag with a receipt stapled to the top. Three dollars forty-nine for the rice. Supreme's people had taken me off the street and I was thinking about the price of rice.

I gripped the bag tighter because it was the only thing in this car that belonged to me.

Nobody spoke during the drive. The driver's eyes stayed on the road. The man in the front passenger seat checked his phone once, typed something, put it away. The man beside me breathed steadily, evenly, like a man being paid to sit still.

The car slowed. I caught a street sign through the tinted window. Pacific Street. Crown Heights. A residential block lined with low-rise buildings, fire escapes, parked cars. The car pulled to the curb and the man beside me opened the door.

"Inside, Miss Asha."

I left the groceries on the back seat. My legs were unsteady when I stepped out but I made them work. I walked through a ground-floor entrance into a hallway that led to a single room at the end. Bare walls, concrete floor, a table with two chairs facing each other. A fluorescent light overhead that buzzed faintly.

One of the men pulled out a chair for me. I sat down. He took position by the door, his back against the wall, his hands folded in front of him. The other man went outside. I heard the front door close.

The room was cold. The chair was metal and uncomfortable. The table had nothing on it. The fluorescent light cast everything in a flat white wash that made my skin look grey.

I put my hands in my lap and tried to keep them still. They were shaking. I pressed them together, interlocked my fingers, squeezed until the shaking slowed.

Omar didn't know where I was. Nobody did. I'd left my phone in my back pocket but I didn't dare reach for it with the guard watching. Even if I could text, what would I say? I didn't know the address. I didn't know which block we were on. I'd lost track of the turns during the drive.

I sat there and waited. The minutes stretched. The guard by the door didn't move, didn't speak, didn't check his phone. He just stood there watching me, unmoved, unbothered, like he could do this all night.

Every sound from outside the room made my stomach lurch. A door closing somewhere in the building, footsteps in the hallway, a car engine on the street. Each time I thought it might be Omar. Each time it wasn't.

I thought about what Supreme would do when he arrived. The escape attempt had been one thing. He'd handled that with warmth, with flowers, with the bag being unpacked. But leaving him for Omar, giving Kadeem his operational intel, helping dismantle his financial pipeline. That was betrayal on a level Supreme wouldn't forgive with shopping trips and oxtail dinners.

My legs were bouncing under the table. I pressed my knees together to stop them. The fluorescent light buzzed. The guard breathed. The clock on the wall behind him ticked forward in increments that felt like hours.

I thought about Nene at the apartment waiting for me to come back with groceries. About how long it would take her to realize I wasn't coming. About whether she'd call Omar or wait. The worst thought was the simplest one: what if nobody came? What if Supreme put me in his car, drove me back to his apartment, and the cage closed around me again? What if the last few weeks just became a memory I carried while I went back to smiling at a man I despised?

That possibility was worse than being hit. Worse than being threatened. Going back was the thing that made my hands shake hardest.

I thought about Omar. About whether he'd come back to the apartment and find me gone. About whether Nene would notice the groceries missing from the fridge and realize something was wrong. About how long it would take Devon to trace my phone if Omar asked him to.

I thought about the last time I'd been in Supreme's control. The apartment, the flowers, the cooking, the bag he'd unpacked. The soft voice and the gentle hands and the absolute certainty that I belonged to him.

I thought about what he'd do this time. The escape attempt had been bad enough. But leaving him, going to Omar, giving Kadeem everything about his operation. That wasn't running. That was betrayal. And Supreme didn't forgive betrayal.

The door opened.

Supreme walked in wearing a grey suit with no tie, his sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his jaw, a tension in his shoulders that I'd never seen before. The man who ran Crown Heights with an iron grip looked like he hadn't slept in days.