Page 59

I text Tony, watching the bathroom door like it might give me answers.
>> We need to leave NOW. Get out here.
No response.
Another man enters the diner, the bell chiming cheerfully as he slides onto a stool at the counter. His eyes meet mine in the mirror behind the bar. They are cold, assessing. Professional.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I count the seconds. One minute since Tony left. Two minutes. The bathroom door remains closed.
"Can I get the food to go?" I ask the waitress as she passes. My voice comes out steady. Thank God for years of training.
She nods, but there's something off about her smile now. Like she knows something I don't.
Three minutes. Four.
The man at the counter hasn't touched his coffee, hasn't even pretended to look at a menu. He just keeps watching me in that mirror, patient as a snake.
I text Tony again.
>> GET OUT HERE. EMERGENCY.
Still nothing.
Five minutes.
My fingers drum against the table, a tell I've never quite managed to eliminate. The sound draws the counter man's attention. His hand shifts slightly, and I catch the glint of metal beneath his jacket.
Gun.
Everything in me screams to run, to grab Tony and get out. But I can't move without knowing where he is, can't leave without?—
The bathroom door opens, but it's just the tall man. No Tony.
And he's smiling.
That's when I know with bone-deep certainty—we've been made. They've got my brother. And I'm about to be cornered like a rat in a trap.
Unless I move. Now.
The waitress appears with Styrofoam containers, and I use the moment of distraction to slide from the booth. "Just remembered we left something in the car," I say brightly, already moving toward the door. "Be right back!"
I'm not sure they buy it, but it doesn't matter. All I need is a head start.
The bell chimes behind me as I burst into the parking lot, cold air hitting my lungs like knives. Behind me, I hear shouts, footsteps, the beginning of pursuit.
I dive into the driver's seat, hands shaking as I jam the key into the ignition.
Please start, please start, please?—
The engine roars to life as figures burst through the diner door. My heart hammers so hard all I can hear is the thundering of blood in my ears and the desperate prayer that We'll make it circling in my mind.
I throw the car into reverse, tires screaming against wet asphalt. The men's mouths are moving, shouting something I can't hear over my panic. Their faces twist with rage as I accelerate backward, my hands shaking so badly I nearly lose control.
A gun appears—black metal gleaming. Training kicks in and I swerve erratically, making myself a harder target to hit. The sharp movement sends my stomach rolling, morning sickness mixing with terror.
More men pour from the diner's entrance. Four, five, six of them. Too many. Too professional. And Tony's still inside.
Tony.