All the same, I hold onto the words like a talisman. For a life that doesn’t have the best track record for most of its twenty-five years, this one thing, this small flicker on a screen, this steady heartbeat, this little life growing inside of me that doesn’t know about human trafficking auctions or massacres, or the fact that its father is a Camorra don—this one thing is good.
“Let’s just get you cleaned up here and?—”
Dr. Martinez has barely touched the cloth to my stomach when the first shot goes off.
It’s muffled, but I still hear it. Then I hear a burst of them, rapid and overlapping. Somewhere down the hall, a woman screams.
Dr. Martinez freezes, the paper towel midair in her hand. Time slows, and for one long second, all I can do is sit there, ultrasound gel smeared on my stomach, a tiny heartbeat still echoing in my ears.
The door bursts open. It’s Amanda.
“Move.Now.”
Her face is white and totally drained of color. But she’s somehow still calm and controlled. She grabs my arms and pulls me toward the door. I stumble after her, my shirt still untucked,pants still undone. As we rush out, I catch a glimpse of the main floor hallway.
Marco is on the ground, just outside the office doors.
He’s on his back, one arm flung out to the side. There’s a lot of blood spreading across the pale linoleum in a growing pool. His eyes are open, but they’re vacant.
Oh God.
“Don’t look,” Amanda says quietly, in almost a hiss. “Don’t look.”
But I’m already looking. I crane my neck, looking beyond Marco to the end of the hallway where the elevator is. I see several men, all dressed in black. They’re masked and moving fast. One of them is dragging something, and it takes me a full second to realize what it is.
Enzo. He’s limp, leaving a red smear on the floor behind him.
A primal scream comes out of me. It’s a sound I didn’t know I could make.
“Thea.” Amanda’s grip on my arm is iron-like. She yanks me in the opposite direction, back down the office hallway. Nurses and doctors are in a panic. The women in the waiting room are being herded into a supply room.
But I don’t need to worry for them. I know, without a doubt, that the masked men aren’t here for them.
They’re here for me.
“Come on,” Amanda says, giving my arm another jerk and pulling me back into the moment. “This way. There’s a back exit.”
We run down the hall.
I don’t know this building, but Amanda apparently does. She pulls me through a set of double doors, past an empty nurse’s station, and around a corner into a narrow corridor that smells like medical supplies. Behind us, I hear boots on the linoleum floor and shouting in Russian.
These are Kolya’s men, no doubt.
My hand goes to my stomach by pure instinct. It feels almost silly, as if I could protect this tiny life from an armed group of men with just my palm and five fingers.
Amanda is ahead of me, moving quickly in her heels. It almost seems as if she’s movingtoofast for a woman who should be as panicked as me. Then again, she’s been in this world longer than I have.
I suddenly realize I’m barefoot—I didn’t put my shoes back on in the ultrasound room. Can’t worry about that now. Too late to think about anything but getting the hell out and away from the danger.
A door crashes open behind us. More Russian shouting. The men are where we’d been standing only a few moments before.
“Here—” Amanda and I reach a gray door marked STAFF ONLY. When she hits the push bar, it swings open onto a concrete stairwell. Her unyielding composure and the fact that she’s not even winded does not escape me. “Down. One flight. There’s a service exit at the bottom that opens into the alley.”
How the hell does she know the building so well?
The thought appears in my mind but is quickly drowned out by panic and adrenaline.
“Amanda—”
