Antonio moves fast but quietly, and I stay glued to him, just as he told me to, my hand fisted in the fabric at his back. Don’t look around. Don’t look around. I stare at the seam between his shoulder blades and let him be my entire world.
We pass another stairwell, this one smelling much worse than bleach. At the next intersection, he slows for half asecond, head tilting, listening. He shifts his weight like a cat ready to spring, then angles us left.
A muffled voice echoes somewhere ahead, distant, but my stomach drops anyway.
Antonio steers me tighter to the wall, keeping our bodies in the shadow line where the overhead fluorescents don’t hit as hard.
We clear the corner.
The service exit sign glows at the end of the back-of-house corridor.
My lungs burn. My legs feel too light, like I’m not quite connected to the floor.
Antonio doesn’t speed up. That’s the terrifying part. He keeps the same controlled pace when all I want to do is break out into a run.
Ten yards.
Five.
He stops just short of the door and goes still, listening again.
Then he shifts in front of me completely—blocking my line of sight—and reaches for the bar with his free hand.
“Stay on me,” he whispers, so low it’s more vibration than sound.
My fingers clamp harder on his jacket.
He presses the bar. The latch gives with a soft click.
The door cracks open. A thin slice of daylight cuts into the corridor.
Antonio leans his head out just enough to scan, then he pulls me through.
We step outside into an alley-like side access lane where delivery vehicles sometimes idle.
I don’t know what the plan is now, but we’ve moved away from the view of the door and are now walking along the side of the building.
Just then, a black SUV comes around the corner, heading right for us. I shrink back into Antonio and screech his name.
But the SUV just comes to a halt in front of us.
The back door opens before we even reach it.
Antonio doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me around and practically shoves me inside—not rough, just urgent.
I scramble across the leather seat, heart hammering.
Antonio climbs in after me, slamming the door.
Two men are in the front.
“Drive,” Antonio barks out.
The SUV pulls out fast, and I twist to look out the rear window, my breath coming in tight bursts.
The side door we came outof bursts open, and the two men spill out of the doorway. One of them pulls out a gun and aims.
“Antonio,” I gasp.