Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Keep going. Don’t think. Don’t stop.
The alley splits and the corridor to the right is dark, but the one to the left, even darker. I pick darker. My lungs burn and so do my muscles, but I don’t slow until I see an open door, light spilling out along with the sound of laughter and the clatter of woks.
Taking a hard corner, I crash straight into the chaos of a kitchen in the middle of a Friday-night rush. Steam hisses from burners, the scent of garlic hitting my nostrils on my next deep gulp of air. People are shouting at each other in a language I don’t speak. Mandarin, if I had to guess.
A cleaver hits a board with the same rhythm as my pulse. The cook turns as I race past him, his eyes wide. “Hey! You can’t—!”
“Sorry, I’m so sorry!” I gasp, and back up, scanning for an exit, only to realize I’m facing a brick wall.
Someone else yells, “Out! Get out!”
Yeah, no kidding.
Thankfully, the cook points me in the right direction, his hand jabbing angrily toward a set of swinging doors still in motion as servers hurry in and out. A waitress appears in front of me when I take off toward the doors, a tiny woman holding a tray like a shield.
She looks me up and down once, and she must see the missing shoes and the absolute terror in my eyes, because she doesn’t ask questions. Instead, she jerks her head toward a different swinging door.
“Hide. Now.”
I don’t hesitate, sidestepping toward the door and smacking my palms into it. A second later, I’m in a storage room. The smell of soy sauce and ginger is heavy in the air, but it sure as shit beats gunpowder.
Still desperate, with hysteria setting in and no clue what else to do, I crouch behind a stack of rice bags, every breath a fight to stay quiet. This isn’t exactly a masterful hiding spot. I wouldn’t have been crowned hide-and-seek champion even against three-year-olds, but it’s the best I could do.
A few moments later, I hear the cooks shouting again, their voices louder this time, angrier. They hadn’t welcomed the first interruption. I doubted they are any happier with two.
While I have no way of knowing for sure, I strongly suspect those men had followed me in here. Caruso’s men.
The thought is so ridiculous that a hysterical bark of laughter almost bursts out, but I bite it back and pressed my palm to my chest, trying to muffle even the sound of my heartbeat. When I’d gotten dressed for my shift tonight, I had not expected it to end with me running barefoot through Chinatown, hiding from mobsters behind a mountain of jasmine rice.
Voices echo from the kitchen, heavy tones that belong to the kind of men who don’t say please. “Is she here?”
The kitchen noise dips like someone hit mute on the whole place. I hear the back door thud shut, and silence fall, the heavy, terrified kind that prickles under my skin.
I freeze, feeling like even the bags of rice are suddenly holding their breath.
“Where is she?” a man barks, his voice carrying the rough edge of too many cigarettes and too much power.
No one answers.
“Blonde girl. Short dress. Have you seen her?”
A cook mutters something sharp in Mandarin. I don’t understand it, but the tone says piss off. Relief trickles through me, but it comes with a sharp stab of fear for the poor cook. He might not have given me up yet, but I just hope they don’t hurt him for his insolence.
“Hey!” the guy barks again. “Do you think I’m playing with you?”
Another crash rings out, maybe a stool falling over or something slamming against the wall. My throat tightens, my nails digging into my palms to keep myself from making a sound.
“If she’s here and you’re lying to me…” The man lets the threat hang midair, thick and heavy.
Only silence follows. Then, mercifully, I hear footsteps retreating. The back door slams again, and a few seconds later, engines roar to life outside.
For a full twenty seconds after the engines rev, I stay still, my lungs burning, my mind shrieking, and my heart in complete overdrive. The door finally creaks open, and the waitress from before appears in the doorway.
She carries the same tray, that same unquestioning calm about her, but her eyes know too much. “They’re gone.”
I exhale for the first time in what feel like years. My whole body trembles, adrenaline turning my muscles to static. “Thank you.”
For a brief moment, her gaze runs over me again, just watching me shake as I straighten up and push to my feet. “Those men are bad. You know this?”
I nod, unable to form any words.
“You got lucky,” she adds, her voice soft but final. “Luck doesn’t last with men like that. You’re a dead woman walking.”