Kat’s posture shifts.
“They’re early,” she says quietly.
“Who?”
“The watchers.”
I don’t see anyone immediately. Then I do. Two men inside the adjacent building’s lobby — not interacting, not speaking — but positioned. This is not random or casual observers killing time. They’re waiting.
We keep walking at a controlled pace trying to look normal and not in a rush. If we bolt, it confirms suspicion. If we hesitate, it confirms fear.
When we reach the other side of the bridge, the air feels different. It’s still charged and even more so as the doors slide open automatically and we find ourselves on a second story mezzanine balcony overlooking the lobby area where the twomen are. They don’t look at us. But I have a feeling they know we’re here. Maybe not, but I’m going to assume they know.
Kat moves slightly closer to me, not clinging, but like we’re a couple — partners. Kat’s hand brushes lightly against my forearm. I don’t read her touch as affection. She’s using it as a signal.
“They expected me alone,” she murmurs.
“Too bad,” I reply.
Below us, one of the men finally looks up directly at her … then at me. He says something quietly to the second man. The second man reaches into his jacket. My muscles tense.
But he doesn’t pull a weapon. He pulls a phone. A slim black burner. He lifts it just high enough for Kat to see.
His demeanor doesn’t seem threatening, but inviting.
“They want compliance,” she says under her breath.
“From you,” I answer.
“Yes.”
“And from me?”
“They don’t care about you.”
“That’s where they’re wrong.”
The first man steps toward the base of the mezzanine stairs. He stops at the bottom and looks up.
“Miss Morozov,” he calls evenly. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
His voice carries without raising volume. He seems professional, almost a corporate type. Definitely not a street thug.
Kat doesn’t move.
“What kind of misunderstanding?” she calls down.
“The kind that benefits everyone if resolved privately.”
The second man walks toward the stairwell access that leads up to us. No guns drawn or sudden movements. But something feels inevitable with these two.
“They’ll separate us,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“You going with them?”
“Yes.”
