"Get back here!" Weasel-face shouted, his feet slapping against the wet pavement as he gave chase.
I zigzagged between dumpsters and fire escapes, my breath clouding in the cold air. The snow had made the ground slippery,but it also muffled my footsteps. My pursuers weren't so lucky—their heavy boots crunched loudly with each stride.
Two blocks down, I ducked behind a parked delivery truck, pressing myself against its cold metal side. I reached out with my ability, feeling for the truck's alarm system.
With a gentle nudge, I triggered it, sending a shrill wailing into the night. Then I slipped around the corner into another alleyway as my kidnappers skidded to a confused halt.
Nothing distracts angry men quite like louder, angrier noises.
I kept moving, putting as much distance as possible between myself and the O'Rourke's goons. The snow was falling harder now, melting against my flushed skin as I ran. My thin jacket offered little protection against the elements, and my fingers were growing numb. I needed shelter, and soon.
Three more blocks and I'd lost all sound of pursuit, but I couldn't risk stopping. Patty O'Rourke wouldn't give up easily. Not when he knew what I could do. Not when he knew how valuable I was to his "collection" of gifted individuals.
I emerged onto a wider street lined with higher-end businesses—restaurants, boutiques, all closed for the night except for one. A restaurant with warm light spilling from its windows and the faint sounds of conversation and clinking glasses. The sign above the door read "The Golden Bear’s" in elegant, understated lettering.
I didn't know then that I was trading one predator's territory for another's. All I knew was that I was cold, hunted, and running out of options. So I did what any reasonable man with electronic manipulation abilities, no money, and murderous kidnappers on his trail would do.
I decided to crash someone else's party.
I pressed myself against the brick wall, catching my breath as I scanned the restaurant's back entrance. A delivery doorstood propped open just enough to let a sliver of light escape – someone's small act of rebellion against company policy that was about to become my salvation.
The steady hum of industrial refrigerators mixed with distant conversation and the clatter of expensive silverware.
Perfect cover noise.
I slipped through the gap, my body instantly warming in the heated air as I left the snow and cold behind.
My first instinct was to find a hiding spot, but I needed to see what I was working with. I edged along the corridor, keeping my footsteps light against the polished floor. The hallway opened into a brief glimpse of the dining room, and I paused to take it in.
Wow. Fancy doesn't begin to cover it.
The restaurant was a study in refined elegance. Black-and-cream color scheme executed with the precision of a military operation. Crystal chandeliers hung from high ceilings, casting a warm glow over tables draped in pristine white linens.
The patrons were equally polished – men in tailored suits, women adorned with jewelry that probably cost more than my annual rent. Back when I had an apartment and not a series of hotel rooms paid for in cash.
Behind me, voices approached along the delivery corridor. I ducked away from my observation point and found myself in the bustling kitchen. Chefs in white coats moved with practiced efficiency, calling out orders in a mixture of English and Russian. Wait staff glided in and out, collecting artfully plated dishes that looked more like architecture than food.
A row of hooks near the swinging doors caught my eye – staff aprons, neatly hung and waiting. I grabbed one, slipping it over my head and tying it at my waist.
Nothing fixes "disheveled fugitive" quite like stolen work-wear because wearing someone else's uniform was the height ofcovert ops. They teach that day one at spy school, right after "how to look inconspicuous while sweating profusely."
A server rushed past, barely glancing my way as she collected a tray of what looked like caviar on tiny toast points. I watched her posture, the way she balanced the tray, how she pushed through the swinging door with her shoulder.
When another tray of hors d'oeuvres appeared on the pass, I stepped forward with manufactured confidence and claimed it. I straightened my back, fixed a pleasant but distant expression on my face, and pushed through the doors into the dining room.
The full scale of the restaurant's opulence hit me at once. The black and cream theme continued throughout, accented with gold fixtures and deep, rich wood. The air smelled of expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and money – lots of it.
I moved between tables, offering my tray of tiny, unidentifiable food items with a rehearsed murmur. "Hors d'oeuvre, sir? Madam?" Most patrons took one without really looking at me, their gazes sliding past as if I were just another fixture in the room.
My current best disguise: the invisible service worker.
I noticed the subtle hierarchies at play as I circulated. Certain tables commanded more attention from the staff. One corner section seemed particularly exclusive – higher-backed chairs, more space between tables, security personnel attempting to blend into the decor but failing miserably.
Their earpieces and vigilant eyes gave them away.
"The salmon mousse is divine," a woman commented as she plucked an item from my tray. Her diamond earrings caught the light as she turned back to her companion.
I nodded politely, continuing my circuit of the room. My heartbeat had finally slowed to something resembling normal when I caught a flash of movement at the restaurant's entrance.
