24. Anika
ANIKA
M uscle memory kicks in before my brain catches up.
My father didn’t spend years drilling kung fu forms into me for nothing.
I pivot, redirecting his momentum while simultaneously driving my elbow backward into a solid ribcage.
Air whooshes from his lungs as he doubles over.
I follow with a knee to his face that sends him staggering backward.
His partner doesn’t hesitate. He lunges, aiming a punch at my head that would have knocked me unconscious if it connected. I sidestep, catching his extended arm and send him stumbling into a row of hedges. A swift kick to the back of his knee drops him to the ground.
The first man recovers quickly, producing something from his jacket pocket. A syringe. My stomach drops. Whatever’s in that needle, I definitely don’t want it in my bloodstream.
“Why are you making this difficult?” he hisses, circling me cautiously now.
I shift my weight to the balls of my feet, keeping both men in my peripheral vision while executing a perfect spinning kick.
My boot connects with his wrist, sending the syringe flying into the bushes.
He curses and throws a wild punch that misses my head by centimeters.
I counter with three rapid strikes. Nose.
Throat. Sternum. He collapses to his knees, gasping for air.
The second man charges again. I use his momentum to flip him over my hip. His massive body slams against the sidewalk. Basic judo throw, but it works every time on overconfident men who underestimate five-foot-seven women.
I don’t wait to see if he gets up because syringe guy is coming at me now.
We exchange a flurry of blows. His attack more conventional street fighting, mine the disciplined forms of Wing Chun.
I parry his jab, counter with a palm strike to his nose.
Something crunches. He howls, blood streaming down his face.
“Sorry about that,” I mutter, then drive my knee into his groin.
I hear Ivy’s front door opening again. “Anika?” James calls out.
The distraction costs me. The second man, still on the ground, grabs my ankle with both hands. I lose my balance, hitting the sidewalk hard. Pain flares through my elbow and hip. I kick upward, catching him squarely in the jaw. His head snaps back with a satisfying crack.
Lights flick on in neighboring houses. A dog starts barking. The syringe man is recovering from the blow to his family jewels, and I’ve run out of time for this nonsense.
I sprint down the street, my dress hiked up to my thighs.
Behind me, I hear cursing in three different languages.
My lungs burn as I round the corner, scanning frantically for somewhere to hide.
A noise behind me. They’re giving chase.
I dart between parked cars, zigzagging through the residential neighborhood to lure them away from Ivy’s house.
A motorcycle engine roars to life behind me. I risk a glance over my shoulder and see both men mounting black bikes.
Then, headlights illuminate the street ahead. The unmistakable synthesizer of “Don’t You Want Me” growing louder as the lights get closer. A sleek black Bugatti screeches to a halt beside me, passenger door flying open.
Griffin. The absolute idiot didn’t leave after all. He leans across the seats, his expression dead serious for once.
“Need a ride?”
I dive into the car without hesitation. “Go!”
I barely have time to slam the door before Griffin floors the accelerator, sending me slamming back into the leather seat. The Bugatti leaps forward with a growl.
“You came back,” I gasp.
“I was circling the block,” Griffin admits, eyes locked on the road.
The Bugatti’s engine screams, gaining speed, straight toward the motorcycles.
“Are you insane?” I shriek, clutching the dashboard. “They’re right in front of us!”
“Trust me,” Griffin says with disturbing calm.
At the last possible second, motorcyclists’ wrench their handlebars in opposite directions, tires smoking as they skid sideways, barely missing us. Griffin whips the wheel, drifting around the corner as the centrifugal force presses me against the door.
“Seatbelt,” Griffin reminds me cheerfully, as if we’re headed to Sunday brunch instead of fleeing hired goons.
I fumble with the buckle, finally clicking it into place as we take another corner. “Who are those guys?”
“Probably Chase’s men,” Griffin says, checking the rearview mirror. “He wasn’t happy about losing all that money.”
“You think?” The sarcasm drips from my voice.
The motorcycles appear behind us, gaining ground. Griffin floors it, sending us hurtling down a narrow residential street.
Griffin grins, dimples making an appearance. “You’re cute when you’re scared.”
“I am not scared,” I snap. “I’m terrified.”
The Human League fades out and Yaz’s “Only You” fills the car with its melancholy synthesizer. My heart does a ridiculous little flip at the familiar opening notes.
“Is this…”
“Oh, just a playlist I made for you,” Griffin admits, keeping his eyes on the road. “Songs to Make Anika Ditch Her Boring Date. I may have spent three hours crafting the perfect 80s mix to lure you away from Thomas.”
Something warm, and dangerously close to affection, spreads through my chest. This ridiculous man made me a mixtape. Like we’re teenagers in 1985.
“You planned to serenade me with Yaz?” I ask, trying not to sound as touched as I feel. “Do you have a boom box and a trench coat in the trunk?”
“Maybe. Wait until you hear track fourteen. It’s ‘Somebody’ by Depeche Mode.”
“I love that song!”
A motorcycle appears suddenly on our left, the rider’s face hidden behind a black helmet. Griffin swerves sharply, throwing me against the door.
“Sorry. I know you like Yaz, but it’s a bit of a mood whiplash.” He tosses his phone into my lap. “Playlist two. Quick!”
I swipe through while bracing myself against the door as Griffin takes another sharp turn.
“Playlist two?”
“Yeah, the one called Spy Business.”
Of course he has a playlist called Spy Business. I tap it just as the motorcycles pull alongside us. One rider reaches for our door handle. Griffin jerks the wheel, forcing them to fall back.
Gritty electric guitar blasts around us. The display on his phone reads “James Bond Theme” by Oakenfold. It’s all, aggressive big beat drums and surf guitar combined with the brassy horns of the 007 theme. The quintessential soundtrack for a high-speed car chase.
Griffin’s face lights up with boyish delight. “That’s more like it!”
The motorcycles split up, one pulling ahead while the other falls back. They’re trying to box us in.
“Hold on,” Griffin warns, then slams on the brakes. The motorcycle behind us nearly crashes into our bumper but swerves at the last second.
Griffin immediately accelerates again, turning sharply onto another street.
“Where did you learn to drive like this?” I demand as he executes a perfect drift around a fountain in a small plaza.
“Mario Kart,” he answers without missing a beat.
Griffin jerks the wheel left, sending us down a narrow alley barely wide enough for the car. The stone walls scrape against the side mirrors, making me wince.
“Sorry, baby,” Griffin whispers, and I’m momentarily confused until I realize he’s talking to the car.
We emerge onto a wider street, but our reprieve is short-lived. Both motorcycles appear again, closing in from different directions.
“We can’t outrun them,” I say, scanning the streets for police, or help, or anything.
“We don’t need to outrun them,” Griffin replies cryptically. “We just need to outsmart them.”
He makes a sudden turn onto a pedestrian-only shopping street, the car bouncing over the decorative cobblestones. Thankfully, it’s empty at this hour.
“So,” Griffin ventures a sidelong glance at me with a lopsided smile. “Thomas, huh? Still think he’s a better date than me?”
“Eyes on the road!” I shout as he narrowly misses sideswiping a parked car.
“I couldn’t decide if showing up at your date was romantic or creepy.”
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, the tension of the chase dissolving into hysterical giggles.
“Definitely creepy,” I manage between gasps of laughter. “But I’ll allow it.”
Griffin’s eyes meet mine for a split second, and something electric passes between us before he returns his attention to the road. My traitorous heart does a dangerous little flip.
A crash from behind breaks the moment. One of the motorcycles has rammed our bumper.
“Oh no, you did not just do that,” Griffin shouts over the music, accelerating down the street.
The Bugatti responds like it was built for this very moment, hugging the road as we zoom past the historic buildings of Bern’s Old Town.
“Take a right here!” I yell, spotting a narrow street I recognize. “It leads to the river!”
Griffin yanks the wheel hard.
“So? You never answered my question.” Griffin takes a turn without slowing down.
“What question?”
“How does this compare with your date with Thomas?”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you seriously asking about my date right now?”
“Just making conversation.” He shrugs, checking the rearview mirror. The motorcycles are gaining.
“He hates Eurovision,” I blurt out.
“What? NO. Not Eurovision!” He takes another turn. “As a Canadian, I am personally offended for Celine Dion.”
We emerge onto the road running alongside the Aare River and Griffin accelerates again. The motorcycles appear behind us, determined to close the gap.
“The bridge!” I point ahead to where the road crosses the river.
Griffin guns it toward the bridge. “How dare he disrespect our Celine?”
One of the motorcycles pulls up beside us again. Without thinking, I roll down my window and launch my boot directly at his face. He swerves wildly, nearly toppling before regaining control.
“Did you just take off your shoe and throw it at him?” Griffin asks, incredulous.
“They’re killing my feet!” I shout, already removing my other boot.