Chapter 16 #2
The sound was sharp enough to hurt—that modern electronic shriek designed to wake the dead or drunk or both. Bear howled immediately, his puppy voice trying to match the alarm's pitch, and my street instincts kicked in before conscious thought.
Fire meant move. Fire meant don't stop for possessions. Fire meant get out now and figure out the rest later.
I dropped the dress and grabbed Bear's leash from the hook by the door, clipping it to his collar with hands that stayed steady despite the chaos.
My phone went into my pocket along with the encrypted one Ivan had given me yesterday.
Shoes—not the heels Dmitry would want me in tonight but the sneakers I'd worn to the compound, broken in and ready to run if needed.
My eyes—shit, my distinctive eyes that had a half-million-dollar bounty on them. I grabbed Dmitry's Yankees cap from the coat rack, pulling it low over my face. Not perfect but better than nothing. A jacket too, despite the warm day, because pockets meant options and fabric meant protection.
The hallway was already filling with neighbors when I opened the door, everyone in various states of undress and annoyance.
The couple from 4C stood in matching bathrobes, hair still wet from interrupted showers.
The older woman from down the hall had her cat in a carrier, the animal yowling its displeasure at the noise and movement.
"Probably another drill," someone said, but nobody stopped moving toward the stairwell.
I spotted them immediately—Anton and Mikhail, two of Dmitry's security detail who rotated through the building.
They stood at the stairwell entrance, professional and calm, directing traffic with the kind of authority that came from handling much worse situations than potential fires.
Anton's eyes found mine across the crowd, a quick nod of acknowledgment that said he saw me, had me covered.
My phone buzzed as we joined the stream of people heading down. I pulled it out one-handed, keeping my other hand tight on Bear's leash.
I typed quickly: "Fire alarm, heading out with everyone, security guys are here."
His response was immediate, like he'd been holding his phone waiting: "Stay with Anton and Mikhail. On my way."
On his way. Which meant he'd dropped whatever violence or "business" he'd been handling to race back here.
The protective intensity of it should have been suffocating, but instead it made me feel safer.
Someone would always come for me now. Someone would always care where I was, if I was safe, if I needed help.
The stairwell was controlled chaos—twelve floors of residents all trying to descend at once, the sound of shuffling feet and complaints echoing off concrete walls.
Bear pressed against my leg, trembling from the noise but moving steadily.
I kept one hand on the railing, the other on his leash, and let the crowd's momentum carry us down.
"This is the third alarm this month," someone complained behind me.
"Better safe than sorry," another voice responded, older and more patient. "Remember that fire in Chelsea last year? Fourteen units destroyed because people thought it was just another false alarm."
My neck prickled—that old feeling from the streets that meant something was off.
No smoke smell, no heat, no visual signs of fire.
Just the alarm shrieking and hundreds of people moving like cattle through a chute.
Anton was three people ahead of me now, helping an elderly man with a walker navigate the stairs.
Mikhail brought up the rear of our floor's group, professional spacing that meant they had me covered front and back.
But something still felt wrong. Maybe it was paranoia from yesterday's revelations about the Morozov surveillance.
Maybe it was the fact that I now had enemies I'd never met who wanted me delivered alive for questioning.
Or maybe it was just that I'd learned to trust my instincts, and right now they were screaming that this was too convenient, too organized, too perfectly timed when Dmitry was away.
I pulled out the encrypted phone Ivan had given me, but down in the stairwell surrounded by concrete, there was no signal. The regular phone had one bar that flickered in and out. I stayed close to the wall, kept my head down, and counted floors as we descended.
Third floor. Second. Almost out. Almost safe.
The prickling on my neck got worse.
The lobby was packed wall to wall with bodies, everyone funneling toward the main exit in a slow-moving river that reminded me of subway platforms at rush hour.
The marble floor squeaked under dozens of feet, the sound mixing with complaining voices and at least three crying children to create a chaos that made my teeth ache.
Bear pressed harder against my leg, his little body trembling with the need to escape the noise and crowd. I kept him close, worried someone would step on him in the press of bodies. The main exit was maybe thirty feet away, but at this pace, it would take five minutes to reach it.
A hand touched my elbow, and I tensed before registering the uniform—firefighter gear, reflective stripes catching the lobby lights, FDNY helmet tucked under one arm. The man's face was professionally tired, that particular exhaustion of city workers who'd seen everything twice.
"Ma'am, service exit for anyone with pets," he said, gesturing toward a side corridor I'd never noticed before. "Less crowded, easier for the dog. Don't want him getting trampled."
His badge read Martinez, and his radio crackled with official-sounding chatter—something about ventilation systems and checking floors systematically.
"I'm supposed to stay with—" I started, looking for Anton in the crowd.
"The two security guys? They already spoke to me about you, no need to worry." Martinez smiled, the expression practiced but not fake. "Just trying to make everyone's life easier. Your dog's about to have a panic attack."
He was right. Bear was shaking hard enough that his tags jingled, pressed so tight against my leg I could feel his racing heartbeat through my jeans.
I spotted Anton near the main exit, helping organize the elderly residents into a group.
I caught his eye and pointed toward the service corridor, mouthing "dog" and gesturing at Bear.
Anton looked at Martinez, recognition flickering across his face, and nodded. He held up one finger—wait one minute—then turned back to the elderly woman he was helping.
"Other folks with pets are already heading that way," Martinez said, and sure enough, I could see a woman with a Yorkie in a carrier moving toward the service corridor, an older man with a bulldog following.
My instincts were still prickling, but everything looked legitimate.
Anton had recognized Martinez. Other residents were following the same path.
The fire marshal's gear was worn and authentic, not some costume rental.
His radio continued its official chatter.
Even the way he stood—patient but ready to move—spoke of real training.
"Alright," I said, adjusting my grip on Bear's leash.
Martinez led the way, not rushing, keeping pace with the older man with the bulldog.
The service corridor was cooler, quieter, the walls painted that industrial beige that marked areas residents weren't supposed to see.
Our footsteps echoed off concrete, and Bear's trembling eased slightly away from the crowd's chaos.
"False alarm, probably," Martinez said conversationally, his radio squawking agreement about no smoke detected. "Happens all the time in these older buildings. One person burns toast, whole building evacuates."
"Third time this month," the woman with the Yorkie agreed. "My Precious hates it every time."
The service door opened into a loading bay I'd never seen before, despite living here for three weeks.
Morning air hit my face, cooler than expected, carrying the smell of garbage from the dumpsters and exhaust from the street.
My eyes took a moment to adjust from the corridor's fluorescent lights to natural daylight.
More firefighters moved through the space with purpose—two checking something on a clipboard, another speaking into his radio.
A fire truck was parked outside, lights flashing but no siren, and I could hear more sirens approaching from the distance.
The normalcy of it, the routine response to what was clearly a false alarm, should have been reassuring.
"Parking garage access is clearest," Martinez said, leading our small group down the ramp. "We're routing residents out through there to avoid the congestion at the main entrance."
The parking garage was lit by harsh fluorescents that turned everything gray-green and corpse-pale. Our footsteps echoed off concrete pillars, and Bear's claws clicked against the floor in a rapid rhythm that matched my accelerating heartbeat.
But other firefighters were here too, directing residents toward the exit, checking off apartments on tablets, looking official and bored in the way of city employees at yet another false alarm. One of them nodded at Martinez, a casual acknowledgment between coworkers.
The white van sat twenty feet away, angled across two parking spaces with its back doors open. "Facilities Management" was painted on the side in blue letters, the city logo underneath, amber lights rotating on top in that slow pattern of official vehicles.
Another siren wailed outside, the sound echoing through the parking garage like a scream.