Crossing Lines by Adrienne Giordano

4

Faith steppedoff a curb in a quiet Northside neighborhood filled with elegant brownstones and neat row houses. She paused while a black cargo van cruised thru the intersection. She checked the street sign, its letters barely visible under the darkening sky. According to her phone, one more block and she’d be at the gyro place Shane had written on the card.

Odd meeting point in the middle of a residential neighborhood, but she supposed he had a plan. And a reason for calling this meeting. Maybe he’d simply spotted her at the coffee shop each day and wanted to ream her.

If so, she’d tell him to conserve his energy. Anything he’d say she already knew and berated herself over since that first morning a couple of weeks back when she’d woken up early and the apartment walls, the unfamiliarity, closed in on her.

Suffocated her.

Then she looked at the clock and knew, based on what Shane had told her about where to find him, he’d probably be heading to the bar at some point.

And she could see him. If only to catch a glimpse of someone who understood. Someone who’d lived this life.

A compatriot.

A hot compatriot she’d been fantasizing about since he’d first set those icy blue eyes on her.

That was all it took to get her out of the house and to the coffee shop. Each day after, she’d made the same careless decision, justifying it by telling herself that she was keeping tabs on him. Searching for anything suspicious. Making sure he was safe while all that time she put him in danger simply by being there. Oh, the vicious cycle.

At least now she did it around her work schedule at the university rather than sitting like a shut-in all day.

Her job. Something else Shane had helped her with. The favors she owed him continued to stack up. Someday, she’d figure out a way to repay him.

Beside the parked vehicles lining the street, a small gray sedan slowed. She shifted her gaze, peeping out of the corner of her eye. She picked up her pace and sucked in the sticky humidity of a ninety-degree evening near the lake. A bead of sweat slid down her neck as she moved her hand closer to the trusty 9mm under her shirt. If that failed, she’d go for the knife at the hem of her jeans.

“Excuse me,” a man called.

She kept walking, trudging through the thick, heavy air while taking stock of the space ahead. A metal garbage can. A decorative planter in front of a house two doors up. A pile of bricks. All makeshift weapons.

“Excuse me,” the man said again.

Now this guy was becoming a pain in the ass and it fired every one of her nerves. She kept walking, ignoring him while eyeing the bricks just ahead.

“Lady, are you leaving?”

Was she leaving?

She glanced over at his car, creeping along the road beside her while traffic built up behind.

Parking spot.

Ohmygod.He wanted her damned parking spot, not to kill her.

Great life, Liz.

Faith. Her name was Faith now.

“No,” she said. “Sorry.”

The man waved and gunned the gas, the other cars following as some of the tension left her.

She kept walking. Another half block and she’d be at the meeting point. She checked her phone. No calls or messages.

A cargo van — same van? — halted beside the fire hydrant to her left and the ka-chunk of a moving door drew her gaze.

The side door slid open. A tall man wearing a balaclava hood leaped out. Charged toward her.

Cold numbness froze her.

Run.

Scream.

Yes, she’d scream. On a city block like this, there’d be hundreds of people sitting in their homes.

“Help!”

Run.

She backed up, swiveled right, peered up the block. Shane. He’d be at their meeting point. He’d help her.

She took one step — too late. An arm clamped around her waist, squeezing so hard the pressure sent a sharp breath through her lips.

Fight. Scream. Draw attention. Anything to scare him off.

“Help!”

She kicked out, throwing elbows, trying to get the right angle. Fight, fight, fight.

No good.

She kicked again, connecting with his shin, but he had that iron arm around her, lifting her clear off the ground as he dragged her toward the van.

Too strong.

But if he got her inside that vehicle…game over.

“Help!”

Someone had to hear her. In this neighborhood, on this upscale, well-tended street with pretty potted flowers, screaming couldn’t be common.

She kicked again, connecting with her attacker’s knee.

“Ow. Mierda.”

Spanish.No, no, no. They’d found her. She’d been too careless. Too damned careless.

Panic consumed her and she fought her spinning thoughts. Focused on the bricks just ahead.

And escaping.

“Help me! Someone!”

“Hurry up!” a man inside the van shouted.

“No,” she said. And then she gave up on the help-me’s and let out a long, he’s-attacking-me scream that would scare the ever-loving shit out of someone and get them on the phone to 911.

She reared back and — bam! — elbowed him on the side of the head.

“Ow! Stop,” he gritted out, his English clear but heavily accented.

“Never.”

Memories of that nasty basement, Alfaro’s son on top of her, his grip on her throat…

She kicked again, her heel connecting with his shin as he reached the van.

Too strong. He was too damned strong. I’ll never win. If he got her to that van, another man would join the fun and it would be that dank, smelly basement in Venezuela all over again.

Knife. She needed the knife. Or her gun.

“Get her in here,” the man in the van said.

The second man, also hooded, reached out and she swung at him. Feral. Wild.

“Look out,” the driver said, half laughing. “She’s swinging.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” the second guy said. American. The two guys in the van were definitely American.

He reached for her and she swung again, both hands moving, blocking, punching. Win.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Hey!” a voice sounded from somewhere behind her.

A man standing at his front door, the overhead light shining on him as he leaped off the porch.

The iron grip around her loosened and she ripped off another kick, connecting with her attacker’s shin again.

“Help me!”

“Leave her alone!”

The guy from the house was at the curb in seconds and horns behind the van sounded.

“Leave her,” the driver said. “Too much attention.”

“It gets worse from here,” she told them and kicked again.

Then the guy from the house was at the rear bumper of the car parked near the curb, his arms extended, reaching for her.

“Let’s go!” the driver hollered.

The pressure at her mid-section released — just gone — and her body was in a free fall.

Ooofff,she landed on all fours and pain shot from her knees and wrists straight up her limbs.

The tall guy hopped in the van and she bolted to her feet. The door slid closed, the ka-chunk once again breaking through the panic devouring her.

And then the van was in motion, roaring down the block. The man from the house reached for her.

No, no, no. No touching.

Still on her knees, she whipped her arm away and he threw his hands up. “Sorry. Sorry! Are you okay? You’re safe now.”

That’s what he thought.

Still trembling, she set one foot on the ground, levering up to both feet. “I’m…fine. Thank you. I…have…to go.”

Shane. By now, he’d be at their meeting place. He’d help her.

She ran, her feet pounding against the sidewalk, further angering her already aching knees.

“Wait,” the guy said from behind her. “My wife called the cops.”

Terrific. Damned do-gooders. But those do-gooders had probably just saved her life.

She kept running. Using the last of her adrenaline to storm by the homes. A few more and she’d be at the corner. And right around that corner would be the restaurant.

Shane.

She picked up speed. Please, please, please. Let him be there.

She reached the corner, made the turn and — crash — slammed into someone a whole lot bigger than her, sending her bouncing off his much bigger body.

He looked down, his hands immediately steadying her.

Shane.Relief poured over her, knocking her tension back enough to focus on her next move.

“Oh my God,” she said. “We have to get out of here. They found me. Three guys in a van. They took off.”

He gripped her arm and did a visual sweep of her body. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”