Page 6 of Scarlet Chains

Please don’t be locked from outside.

The handle gives under pressure— they hadn’t secured it. Through the crack, I see asphalt, other vehicles, the distant gleam of terminal buildings. Airport signs flash past in Hungarian and English: Liszt Ferenc International Airport.

I slip out and run.

Don’t look back.

Just run.

Run like your life depends on it— because it probably does.

My bare feet pound against the concrete, backpack thumping against my hip. Behind me, someone shouts: “Hey! The bitch is out!”

Shit!

Just keep going!

The terminal— get to the terminal!

More shouts ring out, but I don’t look back. Can’t look back. The terminal building grows larger with each desperate step, glass doors promising sanctuary and crowds and cameras that might keep bullets from flying.

Inside, the chaos of Liszt Ferenc Airport swallows me whole. The terminal stretches endlessly ahead— polished floors reflecting harsh fluorescent lighting, massive windows letting in light from the runway, departure boards flickering with destinations in Hungarian and English. Voices blend into a dozen different languages: German tourists arguing over gate numbers, business travelers barking into phones in rapid Hungarian, children whining in French while their parents drag wheeled suitcases behind them.

So many people.

Too many witnesses.

They can’t do anything to me here, can they?

I push through the crowd like a swimmer fighting a riptide. An elderly couple in matching tracksuits blocks my path, studying a crumpled map with confused expressions. I dodge around them, nearly colliding with a food cart vendor hawking overpriced sandwiches to weary travelers.

Ask someone for help.

Flag down security.

Find a police officer.

The thoughts scream through my mind, but my feet keep moving toward the departure gates instead. That businessman there— tall, authoritative, speaking English into his phone— he looks like someone who could help. Or the airport employee behind the information desk, her crisp uniform and professional smile suggesting competence, safety.

But what if I approach them and suddenly there’s gunfire?

What if these men are watching, waiting, ready to eliminate witnesses along with their target?

The image flashes through my mind— innocent bystanders caught in crossfire because I was too selfish to handle this alone.

And worse— what if these kidnappers really are connected to Osip?

What if his influence extends into the very authorities I’d trust to protect me?

I’ve seen the way he commands rooms without saying a word, the way people defer to him with a mixture of respect and fear. If he wanted someone taken, if he wanted me silenced or “disappeared,” would a uniform really matter?

No. I can’t risk involving anyone else. Can’t trust that help would actually come, or that it wouldn’t arrive with strings attached to the very man I’m running from. I must disappear and I must do it quickly.

Security cameras track my movement from every angle— black domes embedded in the ceiling like electronic eyes. Are they recording my escape, or are they feeding footage to people who want me found? The paranoia feels justified and insane simultaneously.

They’re watching.

Someone’s always watching.