Page 120 of Cruel Obsession

Still nothing.

Panic flutters in my chest. If I can’t get these doors open, I’m finished.

The traffic isn’t moving. Soon they’ll check on me, realize I’m awake. The drug will wear off completely, but it won’t matter because they’ll restrain me properly this time.

I try once more, angling my feet at what feels like the center seam of the doors.

There—a slight movement.

I freeze, not daring to breathe. Did I imagine it? I push again, harder, straining until my thighs burn.

The door gives just a fraction, a whisper of movement. The latch isn’t fully engaged. They didn’t secure it properly.

“I’m calling Mikhail,” the older one says. I hear him shifting in his seat, probably reaching for a phone.

It’s now or never.

I pull my knees to my chest and kick outward with everything I have. The doors resist for a heartbeat, then burst open with a screech of metal. Light floods in, momentarily blinding me.

“BLYAD! SHE’S OUT!” the younger one—Kostya—shouts. The van rocks as someone lunges toward the back.

I don’t wait. I tumble backward out of the van, landing hard on unforgiving pavement. The impact knocks the wind from me, but I roll immediately, pure instinct taking over. My palms scrape against rough asphalt, warm blood slicking my fingers.

Chaos erupts behind me. Car horns blare. Someone shouts a string of curses. I scramble to my feet, swaying as the world spins, then steadies.

Traffic surrounds us, a maze of vehicles trapped in New York’s notorious gridlock. I spot the driver’s door of the van flying open, the silver-haired kidnapper emerging into the sunlight. He’s tall and muscular, his face a mask of controlled fury. He scans the area, spots me.

Our eyes lock for an eternal second.

Then I run.

I weave between cars, my bound hands held awkwardly before me. Horns honk as I dart past vehicles. I don’t think of stopping and asking a driver for help; I’ll only drag them into this shit. All I can pray for is that someone calls the police.

“Dial 9-1-1!” I yell at a startled woman, who stares at me from behind the wheel of her Prius.

Behind me, I hear shouting in Russian. A shot rings out.

Shit, shit, shit!

There are screams as people scramble for cover.

“Stop her!” The older kidnapper’s voice carries over the din of idling engines. “Block her off!”

I dodge between a taxi and a luxury sedan, nearly colliding with a man in business attire stepping out of his car to see what’s causing the commotion. His startled expression barely registers as I push past him.

A car horn blares directly to my right. I spin to see an SUV lurching forward, the driver slamming on brakes just inches from me. The near-miss creates momentary chaos, drivers shouting and gesturing. I use the distraction to duck behind a delivery truck.

My lungs burn, vision swimming at the edges. The drug, the exertion—it’s too much. But stopping means capture. Capture means Dubai. Dubai means being lost forever. Mymind cycles through these connections, using fear to push past physical limitations.

I run faster.

A flash of movement to my left—Kostya, the younger kidnapper, has circled around and is trying to cut me off. He’s maybe thirty, lean and quick, with a jagged scar running through one eyebrow. His eyes narrow as he spots me, changing direction to intercept.

I scan frantically for options. Up ahead, I see it—a city bus pulling alongside the traffic, preparing to make a stop in the bus lane. It’s my only chance.

I sprint toward it, lungs screaming, legs threatening to give out. The bus doors hiss open, passengers beginning to disembark. The first few step down, looking bewildered as I race toward them.

“Move!” I gasp, shouldering past a woman with shopping bags.