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Obviously, not having any of my own, I didn’t put the cash in there. Silvano insisted on stuffing some in there every few days, saying I needed it in case I wanted to get food, coffee, or to take a cab home because my ribs were aching.
This was not food/coffee/cab money, though.
The man had stuffed several hundred in the fanny pack.
Four, in fact.
Four hundred.
I could get a new burner, then use it to try to find a Costa address. Then just hunker down somewhere dog-friendly until Silvano could get to me.
Decision made, I stuffed the cash back into my fanny pack, zipped it up, and started to step out of the alley.
Only to see Neeley and three of his men moving down the street.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
I was trapped in the empty alley, nothing to hide behind or under.
Pulling on Storm’s leash, I did the only thing I could do.
I bolted.
The only advantage I had was a relative familiarity to the area, letting me cut between another alley, going up a block, even as I heard Neeley shouting out orders to his men.
What was I going to do?
No one was going to save me.
Not from a group of armed men.
Not even New Yorkers were that brave.
Panic squeezed my heart and lungs as I flew up another block.
Then there, at the corner, I saw a woman climbing out of a cab.
I didn’t think.
I flew toward it, throwing myself in, then frantically pulling Storm in.
“Drive,” I demanded, trying to duck down.
Thankfully, New York cabbies were accustomed to crazy.
He just punched the taximeter and pulled away from the curb.
“Where am I heading?”
Suddenly, this massive city felt too small, too easy to be found in.
Illogical?
Yes.
But I was running on adrenaline and a bone-deep sort of fear as I pivoted around, looking for Neeley, for his men, or their car.
