I grab a box of my own, and together we head downstairs. I glance over my shoulder at the remaining few boxes. We’re not taking everything now, but if I’m going to be having Sasha’s baby, I might very well be saying goodbye to this place forever.
Outside, Logan Square is bright with clear noon light. Angie’s car is double-parked; the van Bogdan drove over is pulled up onto the curb with the back doors open. As we step out, Bogdan hurries over and takes my box, the hard expression on his face making it clear he’s annoyed.
“I can carry my own boxes, you know,” I say, watching him deftly march over to the van and load the box inside.
“Sasha was quite clear,” he says. “You’re not to carry anything.”
“Why?” Angie asks. “She’s not some pampered princess.”
I know the reason for the rule. I doubt carrying a five-pound box of shoes is going to put the baby in any danger, but, of course, Sasha would be the type to err on the side of caution.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Worse things in the world than not getting sweaty.”
Not to mention Bogdan has me beat in the physical strength department. I watch him move, notice the ease and power with which he carries the box, loads it into the van. The guy looks like former military, someone who’s done things with those hands that I can’t imagine.
Which raises the question: Why does Sasha have someone like him as a body man?
“Shit,” Angie says, shifting the boxes in her hands. “You mind grabbing the lattes?”
“Sure.” They’re on the tops of the boxes, and I quickly pluck them off.
“And mind setting mine on my car? This has been a blast, but I need to get back to work.”
“Definitely. And thanks.”
She winks as she heads toward the van. “My pleasure, babe.”
Lattes in hand, I start toward her car. She’s double-parked, so I need to do a little finessing to sidle through the parked cars and make it out to the street. Once at her car, I step around and set the plastic cup onto the hood and turn toward Angie.
“Hey! It’s here!” I yell over the traffic. “Don’t forget and drive off with it on here like th?—”
A sound cuts me off, one louder than the usual din of traffic: the growl of an engine, quickly growing louder.
I lift my eyes to see a black sedan burst from the intersection ahead, racing toward me with the speed of a damn bullet. Tires scream, metal grinds as the car pivots a bit, scraping a parked car and sending sparks flying.
Holy shit.
My latte flies from my hand as I throw my arms up, the drink sending a light brown arc through the air. Angie screams, and it sounds a million miles away. The only thing in focus is the grill of the car bearing down.
A huge hand grabs my shoulder, and I’m flying sideways. I turn just enough to see that it’s Bogdan, his arm around my torso as he yanks me out of the path of the car. He pulls me back onto the sidewalk, the two of us hitting the pavement hard as I land on top of him.
I roll over just in time to see the car fly by. The driver overcompensates for missing me, swinging toward the other side of the street and clipping a lamppost, mirror shattering, before it moves back onto the street and screeches around the next corner.
Glass rains down. The smell of burnt rubber fills my nostrils.
“Stay down.”
Bogdan gets up, slipping a black pistol out of his innerjacket and scanning rooftops, windows, alleys. He’s calm, precise, and terrifying.
Angie rushes over, dropping to my side and looking me over with big, wide eyes. “Oh my God, oh my God—are you okay? Do I need to call 911?”
Bogdan slips his gun back into his jacket, then shakes his head. “No point. They’ll be long gone before you even hear the sirens. Stay put.” I watch as he reaches into his coat again, this time taking out a phone, bringing it to his ear. “It’s started.”
My pulse drums in my ears, and I can barely hold a thought in my head. What the car did was deliberate.
Someone just tried to kill me.
I place my palms on the sidewalk and push myself to my feet. My first couple of steps feel like some weird zombie shuffle.
