“Perfect!” Suzie gasps, her voice strained.
We rush across the street, fueled by the desperate hope of sanctuary. The pain in my side intensifies, but I ignore it, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other. Thesounds of the city, usually a comforting hum, now feel menacing, every distant siren or barking dog a potential threat.
A teenager sits at the front desk. He looks up, his red-splotched face moving from greeting to confusion, his mouth opening to speak before he shuts it again because he doesn’t know what to say.
Suzie ignores him, tugging me toward the double-doored entrance to the rest of the gym.
“Are you members?” the kid calls after us. “You can’t go in there unless you’re members!”
“Pregnant woman,” Suzie calls back over her shoulder. “Can’t get between a pregnant woman and the bathroom. NYC Administrative Code 11-114: Civil Actions Regarding Pregnant Women and the Use of Restrooms.”
“NYC Administrative Code what?” I hiss as we pass through the doors, fully aware she just pulled that one out of her ass.
“Like that kid knows anything about city administrative codes,” she retorts, still dragging me.
We stumble into the locker room, which is foggy with steam from the showers and sauna. Ignoring the looks from the few women changing or wrapped in towels, we find an empty corner, and I lean against the cool tiles, sliding down to the floor, my legs shaking uncontrollably. Suzie collapses beside me, her chest heaving.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Suzie whispers, burying her face in her hands. “Did that really just happen? That was terrifying.”
“I know,” I manage, still struggling to catch my breath. My hands are trembling so badly I can barely hold my phone. I dial Viktor’snumber, my fingers fumbling. It rings once, twice, then his voice, sharp with concern, cuts through the distance between us.
“Leah! Where are you?” His voice is a torrent of questions laced with a raw edge of panic I’ve never heard before.
Tears prick at my eyes, a wave of relief washing over me at the sound of his voice. “We’re at Squat Goals on Elm Street. Two men tried to grab us, so we ran and hid in here, in the locker room.”
“Stay put. Do not move,” he commands, his voice regaining its usual steel combined with an underlying urgency. “I’m on my way.”
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, then at Suzie, who’s watching me with wide eyes.
“He’s coming,” I tell her. I just hope he gets here in time.
We wait, every second stretching into an eternity. Women come in and out of the locker room, and my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs every time the door opens. What if they find us before Viktor gets here? What if they’re already outside?
A sudden, loud bang echoes through the locker room as the locker room door flies open, a choked scream escaping from the women at the nearby lockers.
My blood runs cold. They found us. Panic, cold and sharp, grips me. I scramble to my feet, looking around wildly for an escape, but there’s nowhere to go. Suzie grabs my hand, her knuckles white.
Shouting and more screams erupt from the main locker area—a crash, a yell, then silence. My breath hitches. What’s happening?
Viktor’s voice, a roar that vibrates through the entire room. “Everyone, get dressed and get out!”
Footsteps pound away, frantic, desperate, the door opening and closing multiple times. A moment later, Viktor rounds the corner, his face grim, his eyes blazing with a cold fury I’ve only seen glimpses of before. Behind him, Iliya stands, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.
Viktor strides past the two men, his gaze sweeping over us, checking for injuries. He’s across the room in a moment and pulls me into his arms, a crushing embrace that steals what little breath I have left. His body is rigid with tension, but his hands are gentle as they cup my face, searching my eyes.
“Are you hurt?”
“We’re okay,” I whisper, my voice muffled against his chest. “Just scared.”
Suzie, still trembling, manages a weak smile. “You guys took your sweet time.”
Viktor manages a slight, humorless smirk. “Traffic.”
Iliya is speaking rapidly in Russian into his phone. He points over his shoulder, his expression hardening.
“They ran,” Iliya reports, his voice low. “Two of them, but Maksim found them.” And then he says something in Russian, causing Viktor to still, the rage in his eyes growing into an inferno. Though his hold on me is still tender, something about that expression makes me want to run screaming away from him.
Viktor nods, his jaw tight. He releases me but keeps a hand on my arm, his touch a constant reassurance. He walks Suzie andme out of the locker room, ignoring the half-dressed women clustered around the doorway and the front desk guy shouting about calling the police while visibly shaking in his sneakers. He doesn’t follow as we emerge into the gray, chilly afternoon again.
