Beforethe Bratvafinds her.
The entrance to the subway station looms ahead, a set of stairs descending into the fluorescent-lit underground. I leap down them three at a time, nearly bowling over a teenager with headphones who’s climbing up.
Please be here. Please fucking be here.
The subway station’s a zoo.
Saturday night in Brooklyn means the platform is packed with people heading into Manhattan for a night out or stumbling home from wherever they’ve already been.
Bodies press together in a jumbled mass of noise and movement that I shove my way through.
I’ve got no manners or sense of politeness about me.
There’s no time for that proper shit. This is an emergency.
I spot a guy in a wrinkled MTA uniform behind the ticket counter and make a beeline for him.
“Hey!” I bark, slapping my palm against the plexiglass for his attention. “You seen a girl come through here in the last hour? Small, Black, curly hair, glasses. Carrying a backpack.”
The guy glances up from his computer screen with the dead-eyed stare of somebody who doesn’t give a shit about his job.
“You’ve described, like, half the women who come through here on a Saturday night.”
“She’s got big glasses. Kind of too big for her face,” I explain from the top. “Her hair’s curly. Not just curly butreallycurl?—”
“Heard you the first time. Don’t know what to tell you, man,” he says, shrugging. “I see a lot of people. They all kind of blur together after a while.”
I reach through the opening at the bottom of the window and grab him by the front of his uniform, yanking him forward ’til his face is inches from the glass.
“Look at me,” I snarl. “I’m not asking for your fucking job report. I’m asking if you saw the girl. Think real hard, or I’ll rearrange that face of yours so bad your own mother won’t recognize you.”
His eyes widen with fear, but he shakes his head. “I… I don’t know, man! I wasn’t paying attention!”
I shove him away with a rumble of frustration.
Useless. Completely fucking useless.
I scan the platform, searching for any sign of her among the sea of faces.
But honestly? It’s hopeless.
There’re too many people bustling about. Too much fucking movement and noise.
If Jhenewashere, she’s long gone by now. She could be on a train heading anywhere in the city, disappearing into the labyrinth of tunnels and stations that make up the New York subway system.
I’ve lost her.
The thought hits me worse than any punch to the gut in the ring.
I hover in the middle of the subway platform for a minute or two, fists stubbornly clenched at my sides, trying to figure out my next move.
It seems I’ve hit a dead end and should probably call it a night.
I head out of the station scowling even deeper than usual—which is saying a lot—and make it halfway down the block when I hear a woman shriek.
“I SAID BACK OFF!”
It’s coming from a few buildings over. It’s instantly familiar and makes my blood spike.
