Aristov.
I bring the file to the top of the stack. It’s thick, bursting at the seams with paperwork. Flipping it open, I scan through some of it, skimming paragraphs and pages, glossing over most of it.
Drugs. Guns. Fraud. Murder.
A lot of allegedly this and allegedly that, he said/she said bullshit, but not much in the way of evidence. No ballistics, no fingerprints, no forensics. A stack of witness statements, each one wrecked with writing, covered in black marker: retracted… missing… deceased… uncooperative… unreliable…
I stall at the last one, blinking a few times at the name on the top of it: Morgan Olivia Myers. Unreliable.
“Whatever,” I grumble as I flip the page.
I skim through the rest. Blah. Blah. Blah. Nothing.
“You have to be kidding me.” I shove it all aside as I scan through files again. There has to be another one somewhere. There has to be more. Besides my original witness statement, there’s very little about my history with Kassian and not a goddamn peep about the pain of the past ten months. “Motherfuckers.”
I shove a stack of files, sending them scattering along the desk as anger runs through me. Have they even done anything?
Shaking my head, my eyes scan the desk again, and I’m about to walk away when a name catches my eye. Gambini. It’s sloppily scribbled on a fresh folder.
I know that name.
I pick it up, and am about to scan through it when the phone on the desk lights up and starts to ring. Shit. I jump, caught off guard, and shove the file beneath my hoodie, securing it with the waistband of my pants as I get the hell out of there.
I keep my head down as I make my way to the elevator, heading down to the first floor. As soon as it dings, the doors opening, I step off and freeze, hearing the unmistakable sound of a familiar booming laugh echoing through the lobby.
Oh my fucking—
My head snaps up, my eyes going straight to a man just ten feet from me. I catch a glimpse of his profile as he stands there, elbows against the front desk, leaning over to talk to Officer Rimmel working the command center. Markel. He’s laughing, flirting, and she’s smiling at him. Smiling.
The woman, with her neon pink nails, has never smiled at me. Not once, in ten months.
As the elevator doors behind me close, my eyes bounce from Markel to the exit. Shoving my hands in the pocket of my black hoodie, I lower my head, my eyes on the checkered linoleum.
I hope like hell I stay invisible as I force my feet to move.
You can do this. You can do this. You can do—
Shit.
I’m yanked to an abrupt stop as a hand wraps around my bicep. Turning my head, I catch his eyes, piercing through me as I’m pulled toward him so fast I damn near lose my balance.
“Suka,” he says, grinning, using that word so casually, as if it’s my real name. Bitch.
My heart pounds furiously.
My head is swimming.
I’m in deep shit.
Deep, deep shit.
‘Let go of me.’ Those words damn near come from my lips, but I know it’s a lost cause, pleading at this point. He’s not going to just let me leave. So I’ve got about five seconds to save myself, to find a way out of this, because being in a police precinct won’t be enough to stop him from throwing me over his shoulder and dragging me out of here.
One. Two. Three. Four.
“Pussycat got your tongue, suka?” he asks, letting out a laugh. “Haven’t you missed me?”
Five.
I don’t think. I just react.
Pulling my hand from my pocket, I point a finger at his face, poking him right in the eye, jabbing hard. BAM. He flinches, letting out one hell of a sound, the shriek so loud everyone turns our way in alarm.
“You bitch!” Markel shouts, covering his eye with his free hand. I know he’s pissed when he says it in English. His hold on my arm loosens in reaction to the sharp pain, letting me slip from his grip and move away.
He tries to recover, realizing he doesn’t have his hands on me anymore, lunging my direction but he’s too slow. Chaos erupts, the command officer calling for help, the police trying to intervene, but it’s too late for that.
I scream at the top of my lungs, scream so loud my voice cracks. “He’s got a gun!”
Does he? I don’t know. Probably not. But who gives a fuck? It does exactly what I need it to do, inciting panic all around us. People try to flee the precinct, the police frenzied, as I run for the exit, shoving through the crowd.
I damn near make it out before someone else grabs me. Ugh, please don’t be Kassian. Turning, reacting, I swing blindly, striking something.
“Jesus, what the hell, Morgan?”
Detective Jones.
Fuck.
He rubs his shoulder, where I punched him, looking around in confusion, but I don’t have time to explain. I push him off, heading out the door as Markel shouts something in Russian.
I shove past people, moving as fast as my feet will go. It’s not safe here. I need to get off of the street. I need to get out of Brooklyn, but the subway isn’t an option right now. Markel is probably already sounding the alarms. They’ll be watching, swarming the area, trying to smoke me out.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I run a few blocks, cutting down some alleys, heading the direction of Coney Island. I know these streets well. I’ve run them before. I’ve hidden in the abandoned buildings in the neighborhood.
But Kassian knows that.
He knows all of my old haunts.
It’s the first place he’ll check.
So fuck it, I instead swing right into a busy coffee shop. It’s not a Starbucks, but close to it, some mass-produced franchise full of hipsters wearing bow ties and suspenders. I get in line, nervously looking around, making sure the coast stays clear, not really caring to actually order anything.
I don’t even like coffee.
Yeah, yeah, I know. There’s something wrong with me.
“I’ll have whatever she ordered,” I say when it’s my turn, motioning to the girl who went before me, some young blonde that reminds me a bit of Melody. I dig some cash from my pocket, paying the astronomical fee for the drink.
“Name?” the cashier asks, grabbing a cup and a marker.
“Scarlet,” I tell him.
I wait some more then, waiting for my drink, still looking around, observing everybody.
I zero in on a guy working alone at a small table near the door, his gaze fixed to his laptop, stickers covering the front of it. Bands, I’m guessing. Music. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with a drummer on it. Scattered along the table are papers, a cell phone sitting on top of a closed textbook.
“Scarlet?” a barista calls, shoving a caramel-colored frozen drink up onto the pass. Guess that’s mine. I snatch it up, sticking in a straw, as I head for the door.
“What’s your favorite Avenged Sevenfold song?” I ask, pausing beside the guy alone at the table, trying to turn on the charm and act interested.
He looks up at the sound of my voice as I lean over, against the table, all up in his space. “Nightmare.”
“No shit?” I smirk, straw against my lips. “That’s mine, too!”
He grins at my response and seems to be at a momentary loss, which is for the best, because I don’t even know who Avenged Sevenfold is. I just saw the sticker on his laptop and rolled with it. Poor guy. I grab the cell phone while he’s distracted, trying to come up with something witty to say, slipping it up the sleeve of my hoodie before pushing away from the table and walking out.
I go another block, passing an apartment building just as someone is leaving. Darting over, I grab the door before it closes, slipping inside as I take a sip of the drink.
I expect it to be bitter and gross, but it’s actually light and sweet. Huh. I pull out the stolen cell phone as I lean back against the wall near the mailboxes, pressing a button, breathing a sigh of relief when it comes to life. No security code needed.
So, okay, I don’t exactly have any friends.
I used to call George in a pinch, but I don’t foresee him coming back to life to help me.
I’ve turned to Gabe before, but seeing how I just assaulted him, he’s out of the question.
So that leaves me with one person. Lorenzo.
Other than 911, it’s really the only number I know.