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MIA

My first thought is, Fuck.

My second thought is actually also Fuck.

But my third is, Shit. That’s a surgical blade.

My breaths turn shallow. It’s only thanks to years of ER work that I manage to fight down the panic. One wrong move, and I’m as good as dead.

Slowly, I turn my gaze up to the rearview mirror. I can’t see the full face of my attacker clearly from here, only the half that’s not hidden by the headrest of my seat.

“Who are you?”

My attacker doesn’t answer. “I said drive.”

It’s a woman. That surprises me more than the fact I’m being attacked. After all, would I really put it past Brad to corner me in my car with a sharp object and force me to bend to his will?

But this isn’t Brad. And he must have really fucked me up, because just knowing that brings me a short burst of relief.

Then I remember the blade against my throat.

“Okay,” I whisper. “You don’t have to hurt me. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

Something flickers in her eyes. There’s a haziness there, like she’s struggling to stay awake. Her hand isn’t the steadiest I’ve ever seen, either, which worries me more than anything else.

She’s sick, I realize. Drugged. An addict, maybe.

But then why isn’t she asking for money?

I turn my key into the ignition. Rhonda the Honda splutters to life, making the blade wobble dangerously in the air, far too close for comfort to my jugular.

“My wallet’s in my purse,” I tell her. “You can take it.”

“I don’t need your wallet.” Her ferocity feels more like that of a cornered prey than a predator’s. It strikes me as odd, but I can’t afford to think too long. “I just need you to drive.”

“Okay. Where to?”

“Anywhere.”

Odd answer. Very, very odd answer.

“Alright,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice calm. “I’ll drive. Just put the blade away.”

“N-no,” she coughs. “You’ll—you’ll take me to the cops.”

“I’m a nurse.” I force a small smile. “I wouldn’t harm you. Can’t, really. Swore an oath and everything.”

“Oaths can be broken.”

“No offense, but so can my jugular. And New York traffic isn’t exactly smooth sailing.” I pull out of the parking lot as carefully as I can. “Way too many potholes here.”

“Just… dri…”

Her head sways in the rearview mirror. Her arm wanders away from my body, but not intentionally.

She’s about to pass out.

I see my chance. Before she can recover, I jab two fingers into the soft spot under her elbow. The blade clatters under the passenger seat, stuck between the car floor and the mat.

I’m expecting retribution, but the woman doesn’t attack me.

Instead, she slumps all the way to the right.

I hit the brakes in the middle of the parking lot. Cars are honking madly around me, but right now, I don’t care.

Hesitantly, I reach for her wrist. She doesn’t stir when I touch her.

She’s built strong, but her skin is sallow, not as tense and elastic as it should be, like she lost a bunch of weight all at once.

The clothes she’s wearing don’t fit her.

An oversized t-shirt, a large leather jacket, both sweaty and stained.

When I take her pulse, it’s as weak as they come.

I should get her to the hospital, I realize. I should get her help.

But when I grip the door handle, my hand stills.

She said “no cops.” That’s not a phrase you’ll hear unless a patient’s in trouble with the law, on the run, or has good reason not to trust a uniform. Getting her into the ER would mean questions. Risks. Possible identification.

And I can’t do that to her.

Of course you can, my rational mind snaps. She held a blade against your throat!

But I don’t listen. Instead, I turn the key into the ignition again, pull out of the jammed parking lot, and head for the Brooklyn Bridge.

Rain starts pouring halfway through, full sheets clashing into the windshield like lashes.

I don’t stop driving until I’ve reached my destination.

I ring the doorbell. I wait in the pouring rain, my attacker’s arm draped around my shoulders, her unconscious body lilting to the side, head bowed lifelessly forward.

Then he opens.

Dark hair. Unkempt scruff. A pair of eyes as gray as snowy skies. “Mia?”

“I need your help,” I rasp.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t protest.

Just moves to the side and lets me in.

Once the door clicks shut behind us, I let Yulian guide me towards one of his guest bedrooms. His shining Manhattan penthouse turns into a swamp with all the water and mud I’m tracking in, but he doesn’t say a word about it.

When the pristine white sheets of his guest bed go damp with the rainwater clinging to my new patient’s body, he sucks in a sharp breath, and I feel a stab of guilt.

There you go again, taking advantage of his kindness. Bringing your messes to his doorstep—literally.

“I’m sorry about this,” I say. “I promise I’ll clean up, but I’m going to need a few supplies first. This woman isn’t well, and I need to?—”

“Why do you have her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mia.” Yulian’s gaze is cold, hard steel. “Just answer me.”

I blink, confused. “She… she attacked me in my car. She had a blade. She wanted me to drive.”

Yulian’s eyes sweep over me as I speak, concern taking over his features. “Did she?—?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “She didn’t touch me. But who is she, Yulian? Do you… do you know her?”

His jaw flexes. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, betraying his nerves.

“Yes,” he rumbles. “That woman is Nikita Morozova. A lieutenant of my Bratva… and the soldier who’s been missing since July.”

Say what now?