“Thank you, Doctor,” he says softly.
I nod back, smiling at the little boy. Moments like this are why I stay. This is why I endure the threats, the exhaustion, and the fear. Because, even with all the bullshit, I can make a difference.
As they make their way outside, I catch Zahra watching me from across the room. “You jumped,” she whispers quietly when she comes closer.
“I know.”
“You okay?”
I rub my temples. “I’m just tired.”
“Go get a coffee,” she insists. “I’ll cover for ten.”
“Thank you.”
In the breakroom, I sink into a chair, letting my head fall back against the wall. I close my eyes and draw in a slow, deep breath as my thoughts drift to the men looking for Maryam. The ones with knives and the one with equally as sharp blue eyes and an infuriating smile.
Trouble. In different ways.
The worst part? I don’t know which I’m more afraid of. But I do know which one I can’t stop thinking about.
It’s been a week of tailing Blake since our hospital encounter. Seven days of waking up, watching, and waiting. Hidden in the building across the street, I’ve been following her comings and goings through a pair of binoculars and a cracked window. She is meticulous. In this short time, I’ve come to know the routine of her days almost as well as she does.
From the hospital lobby to the endless corridors, to the tiny employee shuttle, where she stares out the window instead of into a book or phone. How her fingers curl tightly around the strap of her tote bag when someone wanders a little too close. Or the way she always tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and chews on her lower lip when she’s deep in thought. She pauses before crossing streets, not for traffic, but for people.
She notices patterns. She notices exits. She just doesn’t notice me.But that will soon change…
She moves through her life like she isn’t being measured and quietly assessed by forces she doesn’t see. Meanwhile, I’ve been calculating distances, memorizing her habits, and preparing for the moment when something goes wrong. Because it will. Italwaysdoes.
The smell of roasting spices, fried bread, and overripe fruit hangs in the air as I slip through the market stalls, blending with the sea of shoppers. This place is chaos incarnate. People walk crammed, shoulder to shoulder, as vendors bark prices in a language I don’t understand and music clashes with the hiss of hot oil.
Blake is so small that, even with my eyes locked on her, I nearly lose her in the crowd. She moves through them like water pouring through cracks, graceful without trying. I can’t say the same about me. At nearly double the size of the people around me, I struggle to weave through them without inadvertently shouldering every other person I push past.
As I work my way around an elderly couple, I notice another man pushing through the crowd. He’s in his mid-thirties, average height, and wearing a nondescript black polo and khaki pants. It’s the kind of uniform that professionals wear to blend like a shadow. He mirrors her movements, staying exactly thirty feet behind her. Not close enough for her to notice him, but not far enough that he’ll lose her in the crowd.After all, I would know.
I stop, slipping behind a display of scarves, letting the fabric and color swallow me whole as I tuck my comms into my ear. “You spot the guy in the black polo and khakis?” My voice is low so as not to draw attention.
“There are about five hundred guys in black polos and khakis.” Gunnar’s voice drawls back, dry and unhelpful. “I’m going to need you to narrow it down a little more. And don’t say he has dark hair.”
I smirk, despite the tightening tension prickling under my skin. “The one who hasn’t been more than thirty feet from her since she hit the spice stalls.”
There is a brief silence on the comm. “Ah. Copy. I see him.”
“Grab him. See what he wants with her.”
“You think he’ll tell me if I ask nicely?” Gunnar deadpans.
“What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Doc?” I mutter to myself.
The man follows her with the precision of a predator, the quiet and steady fearlessness of a trained professional. He creeps with the ease of someone who knows exactly how this ends.I know that look… I’ve worn it more than a few times.
Blake steps into a narrow alleyway between a few vendor stalls. The noise of the market falls away like a curtain dropping, and I see it hit her all at once. Shadows stretch across her face; it’s hollowed with pure, unfiltered terror. Her hands clutch the straps of her tote bag, and her shoulders tense as if she’s preparing to shrink into herself.
The man steps closer, closing what little distance was left between him. I can’t hear his words from here, but the way she recoils, her chin lifts defiantly, and her arms cross across her chest, I know for certain something isn’t right.
I shove through the crowd, my heart thumping, as Gunnar’s voice cuts through the comms, steady and infuriatingly calm. “Don’t engage.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Or I could save her.”
