Chapter 13
Jordan
Sunlight filters through the leaves above me, slicing the gloom into restless gold and green fragments.
Dull, familiar pain pervades my body. A chorus of cramps in my muscles, the raw throb of scraped palms and knees, the burn at my heels and toes. The reason I started doing yoga in the first place was to chase away the stiffness left by sleeping on the ground.
But today, I’ll take the pains.
I’m free.
Freedom hurts but belongs to me.
I hunch beneath the bowing leaves of the rhododendron, careful not to let a single fingertip stray into morning light as I peek out from my hiding spot. Scoville Park churns with a new day.
Joggers in glossy sunglasses litter the space, their paces precise and practiced. Dog-walkers talk to pampered pets. A mother pushes a sleek stroller while wrapped up in a phone call.
Ordinary people. Safe people. Untouched by men who hunt and kill with eyes colder than their hands.
A pair of runners glide past, close enough that if I reached out, I could touch them.
I wait for a break in the crowd, a moment of quiet, to slip out. Crawling free from my shelter, I calmly force myself to walk upright. I brush away leaves, pick out the burrs, smooth my shirt, and attempt to look like a person with somewhere to go.
With a little distance, maybe no one will glimpse the panic in my eyes. Maybe, to everyone else, I’m just tired. Not desperate.
A businessman in slate blue athleisure leading a rotund corgi on a designer leash clocks my bare feet and immediately glances away.
Reflexive. The classic response of the rich.
If you spot any poverty, act like you saw nothing.
Normally, that behavior would grate on my nerves. Now, I welcome the invisibility.
I can’t go back to the apartment. But I could still attend the Soul Journeyers conference.
This year, somehow, I made the cut as one of the presenters. Chosen to lecture on “Manifesting Abundance Through Trauma Healing.”
Two hundred souls signed up. Two hundred potential customers, each of them maybe one click away from my meditation series, my Patreon, and the lifeline that could finally transform my spiritual hustle into groceries.
Not to mention the hotel. Presenters receive a complimentary room, along with breakfast, one dinner, and a ticket to the final night’s meet and greet with cocktails. Two nights in a fortress with real locks and proper security. Anonymous corridors, cameras, and endless witnesses.
Actual safety.
The conference starts tomorrow. I can buy myself an extra night or three with the credit card the hotel has on file.
I’ll handle the bill later. Or not.
Sharp, wild laughter—the kind that tastes like panic and desperation—scrapes my throat raw.
If I end up filing for bankruptcy after all this—the kidnapping, the running, the mess—I’m putting Kirill’s address right on the paperwork and stuffing the envelope with a glitter bomb.
Cosmic justice, the choking hazard included.
But first, I have to get there.
At least ten miles.
My feet already throb, torn up from that midnight sprint, the skin rubbed raw. I need a ride. Transit would do. The L, a bus, anything, but I’ve got nothing. No shoes, no money, no card. The odds of a transit cop letting me through? Zero.
Centering myself, I whisper a request to the universe. “I am open to receiving safe and immediate transportation to Chicago. I am aligned with the energy of progress. I trust my path forward will reveal itself.”
As I near the edge of the park, I spot a yellow taxi gliding slowly around the corner, the headlights catching puddles.
My chest jerks as hope and panic tangle together.
Salvation almost passes me by.
The cabbie barely glances my way.
For a second, I think I’ve lost my shot at abundance.
But then he slows.
Stops.
His face, obscured behind mirrored aviators, regards me through the rearview.
Frantically, I throw my arms up. “Please!” There’s no time for pride, if I ever even had any. “Bad date. Real jerk. He left me here. I need to get to my hotel in the city. I promise I can pay you if you just get me there.”
The driver surveys me more closely. Bare feet, shredded dignity, a face streaked with dirt.
He’s older, with salt-and-pepper hair. With the deep noise of a man who’s seen every kind of trouble, he sighs. “Hop in.” Gruff, but not cold. “You look like you need a break today.”
“Thank you so much. I really do.” I slide onto the worn leather of the back seat.
As the taxi pulls out into the empty road, bright, overwhelming relief hits me.
I’m moving. Free. Alive.
For the first time in six days, hope feels less like a prayer and more like a possibility.
I rest my forehead against the taxi window and watch Scoville Park fade away. The streets melt into the ragged fringe of Chicago. With every block, the tightness in my chest loosens, tension leaking out by degrees. For the span of a breath, my eyes drift closed.
That’s when the world comes crashing back in a shockwave of shrieking metal. Glass shatters in a burst of brittle stars, the impact spiraling through my body. I fling around the back seat as the taxi spins.
Gravity loses hold, and the banshee wail of the horn assaults my ears.
One bounce. Two. We’re rocking. Then we slam back down onto all four tires, one side higher than the other, the cab a twisted mess.
Somehow, I’m not hurt. Or maybe I’m just not feeling the pain yet.
That’s a scary thought.
Digging my fingers into the seat, I pull myself up off the floorboard and press my face against the plexiglass separating the back from the front, where I find the kind driver slumped, his chin buried in his chest and blood trickling from his hairline in shivering, crimson rivulets.
The cab thickens with the stench of smoke and burning rubber.
I take a deep breath and find undertones of hot metal and chemicals that sting the back of my throat.
A black van idles nearby, crooked in the street, its front end mangled.
My ears ring, the electric, high-pitched whine eclipsing everything but my racing pulse.
Before I can come up with a way to save the driver, the door at my side bursts outward. The screech of metal scrapes down my spine.
Two sets of hands seize me and haul me out as a man shoves his face into my field of vision. I get a close-up of pocked skin, the scar slicing his cheek, and hot, distant eyes.
“Got her.”
I try to scream, but shock locks my throat. Worse, my limbs won’t obey my orders.
Scarred Cheek hauls my limp body up. My skull crashes against the door frame, and white spots burst behind my eyelids.
The other guy comes into wobbling view. He’s got crooked teeth and a crooked nose. A face that’s taken several beatings. But clearly not enough for him to change his job.
My vision swirls as they drag me across the street, one on either side, lugging me like a sack of potatoes.
They pin me to a wall, where brick grinds into my spine. The impact rattles my teeth.
The scarred man’s throbbing veins hinder my vision, his red-rimmed eyes wild as he wets his lips and spit flecks my cheek. “Why is Khitrenko interested in you?” A blade appears in his hands, which he presses against my throat.
The word “Khitrenko” means nothing. But that cold, sharp edge on my flesh means everything.
My legs still refuse to work right, and I can just picture myself stumbling and slicing my own throat. “You have the wrong person. I don’t know what Khitrenko—”
The blade digs in with a burn as blood trickles down my neck.
My blood. Their questions. Fear floods my system as the knife waits for an answer I can’t give. Each heartbeat in my ears reminds me of what I might lose. The taste of oily air could be my last.
“Kirill Khitrenko!” Garlic-scented spittle splatters across my face. “What does he want?”
They know Kirill?
Panic pushes my throat just as much as the blade. These men inspire a different kind of terror than Kirill did. With him, it was the distant but obvious threat. A shiny blade honed to mesmerize.
These men are reckless, violent, and impatient. Nothing compared to the shark I’ve spent the last week with. They’re hyenas circling, afraid to act on their own.
When the knife slides up my neck, chills run down my back to my tattered legs.
The subterfuge I used on Kirill won’t work on these guys. But I can play up rather than obscure my fear. “If you’re talking about that tall man who attacked me on Sunday, I don’t…know. I don’t know anything. I’m telling you—”
The crooked partner with empty hands and roving eyes grunts out a jagged laugh. “Throw her in the van. We’ll make her talk in private.”
Van?
I spy the second vehicle parked down at the mouth of the alley. Two dark-haired men stand by the doors, their eyes darting in a way that marks them as lookouts.
No. No. No.
The word skitters through my mind, skipping like a scratched CD.
My brain detaches from my body as they pull me forward. My legs barely budge. My arms dangle. I should claw, kick, and scream.
Instead, terror severs the connection between brain and muscle.
This is worse than the safe house with its clinical threats and silent, chilling surveillance. With Kirill, I feared for my soul.
Here, my life’s in immediate danger. Every rough grip and shove promises violation, hurt, and a kind of violence that has no sense and a voracious appetite.
Phut.
The pop of a plastic bag flicks at my ears.
Phut.
Again.
What is that?
Scarred Cheek stops moving. His hand falls from my throat. With a dull clank, the knife clatters to the ground.
A crimson bloom appears on his chest, spreading wet and fast through his shirt. He folds in half, dragging me down under his weight before I have a chance to escape.
I fall hard and awkward, his massive body on top of mine and digging into my sternum. The scent of iron and gunpowder wafts over me.
The second man scrambles for the weapon at his belt. Far too slow.
After two more phuts, he flies backward, dark blood oozing from his gunshot wounds.
At the alley’s mouth, the van screeches off, tires screaming in a steady tak-tak-tak as holes appear in the sides. The abandoned lookouts race for cover.
Kirill materializes from behind them while tucking a silenced gun into his holster.
His face stays smooth, rigid, and unreadable, his eyes cold, flat, and indifferent. Not anger or satisfaction, only lethal intent.
A shark narrowing in on prey.
The fear that froze me just moments ago cracks and splinters, replaced with almost sob-inducing relief.
I struggle beneath the body caging me. Kirill’s here, but I can’t just depend on him for everything.
I can get out of this myself.
Across the pavement, Kirill is liquid grace, gliding in a way even my mother would approve of. With two quick teleportation-like movements, he’s closed the gap between himself and his slower assailant.
With no warning and no words—just a flicker of motion—Kirill’s elbow shoots up and out.
His leg kicks forward, then back.
A shout rings out as the first lookout crumples and Kirill spins toward the second.
This time, Kirill sprints. When he gets close enough, his hand whips out.
A flash of light glints off a blade.
The fleeing man gargles a strangled noise, blowing bloody bubbles from his throat. He collapses as red ooze pours from his mouth.
I shudder, my battle against dead weight forgotten.
What sort of demon did I manifest?
Kirill heads back to me. He pauses next to the first lookout, who’s face down on the ground and struggling to breathe. His heel comes down on the back of the guy’s head.
I close my eyes but can’t keep the squelch of a popping watermelon out of my ears.
Hot, acidic bile rises in my throat.
I’m never going to be able to eat watermelon again. Or any kind of melon.
But…
Kirill saved me.
Why?
Because he hasn’t gotten any answers out of me. Obviously.
Footsteps approach.
Steady hands grip my arms, pulling me out from under the dead man.
Prying my eyes open, I meet Kirill’s gaze.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. You’d never know he just killed four men considering he’s spotless. Not even a drop of blood on him. The man’s so cold, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
His flat, calculating, impossible-to-read eyes sweep over me as he takes measure. After forming a decision, he sets me on my feet.
As if jolted out of a trance, my paralysis shatters.
Pure, simple instinct takes over, shoving me forward before I can think.
I collide with him, headfirst, my fists bunching in the front of his jacket, the fabric slick and soft to the touch. I hold on to the jacket like a lifeline, wrapping the fabric around me and wallowing in the warmth.
This isn’t comfort or trust. Not anything close to forgiveness.
But he’s familiar and safer than the men he just murdered.
I bury my face against his shirt. He smells like metal and sweat and faint citrus, and the scent cuts through the ringing in my head. My whole body quivers, from my eyes to the tips of my toes.
His hand finds my back. For a second, it just hovers. Then he presses his palm between my shoulder blades.
Not gentle. But steady.
I should bolt. Run until my lungs give out or Kirill throws a knife in my back like he did to the other guy.
But here and now, with blood pooling around my feet and my throat still bleeding, he’s the only thing left keeping me upright. The lesser evil. The lone shelter from those who hunt me in the dark.
And…in the end, the universe answered.
I asked for safe transportation. My first guess—the taxi—was wrong.
Kirill, the monster I manifested into my living room, must be my path forward.
So I cling to him and try not to fall apart.