Page 66 of The Voicemail

I slip outside.

Cold air hits my face, and for one perfect second, I’m free.

The city is loud and damp around me. Traffic crawls at the end of the block. People walk by without looking at me, because this is New York, and everyone here is committed to ignoring obvious distress unless someone is bleeding on their shoes.

I turn left and walk fast. I don’t run. Running gets attention. Walking fast makes me look like every other person in this town running late for something.

Maya’s apartment is too far to walk and in my hurry to slip out, I left my wallet behind. No money, no MetroCard, no real way to get there safely. Damn it, this was stupid.

I only make it half a block before a black SUV rolls up to the curb, slow and smooth. My stomach drops. I wait for Alex to get out and ask me what the hell I think I’m doing. He doesn’t, so I keep walking.

The window is too dark to see through. It’s Marco, probably, or one of the other men Alex keeps stationed around me like furniture with guns. I refuse to stop. The SUV keeps pace.

It follows me until I reach the end of the block, then the rear door opens. He’s clearly tired of the charade. I turn my head just enough to glare, prepared to tell Marco that unless he plans to physically throw me over his shoulder in broad daylight, he can get back in the car and mind his business.

It isn’t Marco. For one stupid second, my brain refuses to understand that. The man stepping out is shorter and broader. He’s dressed in a dark coat and has leather gloves on his hands. I don’t recognize his face. He’s definitely not one of Alex’s men.

He grabs my arm. I twist hard, but he’s already moving. Another man gets out behind him, and the sidewalk turns into a blur of hands and cold air and my own heartbeat slamming in my ears.

“No,” I scream. “Get off me!”

The first man tightens his grip. I swing my elbow back and catch something solid. He curses. Good. I hope I broke his nose.

Then the second man clamps a hand over my mouth. Panic explodes through me. I bite him hard.

He swears and jerks back, but the first man uses that second to shove me toward the open door. My shoulder hits the frame. Pain flashes down my arm. I grab for anything, the door handle, the edge of the seat.

“Help!” I try to yell.

It comes out muffled because the second man’s hand is back over my mouth. No one even looks our way, not wanting to get involved in anything that might make them late for work.

I kick backward and hit someone’s shin. He grunts. The grip around my waist tightens, crushing the air out of me.

The baby. The thought slices through the panic so sharply I almost go limp. I need to protect this baby. It’s at this exact moment that I know I want this child, and I will do anything to keep it safe.

That gives me one clean second of focus. I slam my heel down on the first man’s foot and throw my head back. The crack is awful. He releases me with a shout, and I stumble forward, almost free.

Almost.

A hand catches the back of my hoodie and yanks. The fabric chokes me. My feet slip on the damp sidewalk. I claw at the neckline, gasping, and then something cold presses into my side. A gun. The whole world narrows to that single point.

“Quiet,” the man behind me says.

His voice is calm.

Across the street, someone pulls out a phone. A cab honks. A dog starts barking. The city keeps moving the way it always does, even when my life is falling apart in the middle of the sidewalk.

I look toward Alex’s building. One of the guards at the front has turned, but he’s too far away to do anything.

The man behind me drags me back.

The second man gets into the SUV first and pulls me after him. There are too many hands, too much force. The door slams against my hip, then opens again when I kick it. Someone curses then hits me across the face.

White light bursts behind my eyes. For half a second, there is nothing. Then I’m on the floor of the SUV, cheek against the rubber mat, tasting blood. The door slams shut with a vicious finality.

22

ALEX