Maybe she can't hear me from the front. Maybe she's looking for her keys or her phone or whatever she came back for.
But something feels wrong.
And then I hear footsteps, slow, measured, moving through the main gallery toward the back.
“Claire?” I call again, louder this time. "Is everything alright?”
Still no response. The footsteps continue, getting closer.
My heart starts to pound. I look around the back room, suddenly aware of how trapped I am. The only exit is through the doorway where those footsteps are coming from. My phone is up front, charging, and nowhere in reach without going out toward those footsteps.
"Hello?" My voice is shakier now, fear bleeding through. "Who's there?"
The footsteps stop just outside the doorway. I can see a shadow on the floor, cast by the security lighting in the main gallery. A large shadow—too large to be Claire.
A man steps into the doorway, and my heart trips in my chest, palpitating behind my ribs as cold terror washes over me.
The man standing there is huge, over six feet, muscular in a violent, brutish way. His face is hard, with cold, flat eyes that sweep over me assessingly, like I'm a problem to be solved. He’s wearing black tactical clothes, and the way he moves as he comes further into the room makes my skin crawl.
This is not a customer. This is not someone who wandered in by accident.
He says something in Russian, his voice low and rough. I don't understand the words, but I understand the tone. It's a threat.
"I don't—I don't speak Russian," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He switches to English, his accent thick. "Mara Winslow.”
My blood runs cold. It's not a question. He knows who I am.
"Who are you? What do you want? Did—" I almost ask if I.S. sent him, but that sounds ridiculous. I don’t think I.S. would send another man to collect me. He’d come himself. And this man doesn’t look like he wants to take me anywhere gently.
He takes a step into the room, and I back up instinctively, my hip hitting the work table. "You are problem. You bring Sorokov here. Sergei does not want him here. We fix problem."
Sorokov.
Well, now I think I know his last name.
The thought slithers through my head in the moment before the pieces start to come together, and I stare at this broad, brutish man, realizing that this is something else. Someone knows about I.S., knows about the connection between us, and isn’t happy about it.
I’ve been dragged into yet another layer of this against my will, and now, the danger is more real than ever and altogether different.
"I don't know what you're talking about.” My voice is shaking so badly the words barely come out.
"You know." He takes another step closer. "You are his. This makes you target."
Terror floods through me, cold and sharp. The room suddenly feels impossibly small, the shelves and artwork closing in around me. He's blocking the only exit. My phone is in the other room. There's no one else in the building.
I'm alone with this man who just said I'm a target.
I could run, or I could fight, and there’s nowhere I can run unless I can somehow get around him.
He moves toward me, fast for someone his size, and instinct takes over. I grab the first thing my hand touches—a small ceramic piece from the table—and throw it at his face. It shatters against his shoulder, barely slowing him down.
He lunges for me, and I dodge to the side, knocking into a shelf. Artwork crashes to the floor. I scream, even though I know no one will hear me—the neighboring businesses are closed for the night, and no one outside is going to come to my rescue. His hand closes around my arm, fingers digging in hard enoughto bruise. I claw at his face with my free hand, my nails raking across his cheek. He grunts, his grip loosening for just a second, and I wrench myself free.
I bolt away on pure adrenaline, nothing in my head except survival now. He lunges again, grabbing me as I struggle, knocking into shelves, sending more artwork crashing to the floor. He's stronger than me, bigger than me, but I'm desperate and terrified and fighting for my life.
I drive a knee up into his groin, meeting thick, heavy meat, and he lets me go long enough for me to almost dart out of reach before he grabs me again with both hands this time, trying to pin my arms. I kick at his shins, his knees, anywhere I can reach. My foot connects with something and he staggers slightly.
