Page 87 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

I keep both hands on the cart and head for the passage he came from. He barely looks at me before moving aside.

The supply door has a small window clouded at the edges. Through it, I see the delivery yard behind the house, away from the front drive and the main entrance.

Snow crusts around refuse bins. Crates sit beside the wall. A produce truck idles near the supply lane while two kitchen men load empty boxes into the back. Past the truck, trees line the service road. Beyond the trees, gate lights shine in the dark.

For the first time all night, I can see a way out. If I get past the gate, I can reach the road. If I reach the road, I can find a shop, a house, anything with a phone. After that, I can call Kathryn, the embassy, anyone who can make noise before Dmitri finds me again.

I leave the cart beside the supply shelves, take the towel stack with the knife hidden inside, and push through the door. Cold hits my face, and I almost stop walking.

No one calls my name. A driver stands near the yard office with a cigarette cupped in one hand, his back half-turned against the cold. One kitchen man is inside the truck bed, turned away as he drags empty boxes toward the cab. Another bends near a stack of crates by the wall, cursing under his breath.

I keep the towels high against my chest and walk toward the truck like I’ve been sent there. Nobody looks twice.

Near the rear corner, where the truck blocks me from the yard office, I set the towels on a crate, pull out the knife, and tuck it inside my waistband with the handle flat against my skin.

Above the yard office, a camera shifts. Small flakes begin to fall. I move along the truck’s blind side with the towels held against my chest, keeping the produce truck between me and the men near the yard office. The service lane lies ahead, black under the lights, with the smaller guard post beyond it and the gate farther past that.

For two seconds, I have a path.

I break into a run.

Someone shouts behind me, and Dmitri’s voice cuts through the yard from the office side. He says my name once, and it hits harder than the cold.

I duck around the rear of the truck, trying to keep the vehicle between us. The knife digs into my waistband, but I keep moving. Snow grinds under my boots. Cold metal skims my sleeve. The service lane is right there, only a few yards past the truck’s rear corner.

Then my sock slips.

My foot slides wrong, my ankle twists, and I go down hard on one knee. Pain shoots up my leg so fast, I almost lose the towels. I bite back a cry, shove one hand against the frozen ground, and force myself up.

I make it two limping steps before he catches me.

One arm comes around my waist, and my back hits his chest. I twist, slam my elbow behind me, and feel it connect. He grunts. My good heel strikes his shin, but the sock over my boot slips and kills half the force.

The knife falls somewhere behind me. Dmitri drags me back against the rear of the truck, pinning me where the metal blocks the yard on one side and his body blocks the lane on the other.

“Stop,” he shouts over the wind.

“Let me go.” I squirm hard enough to bruise myself against the truck.

“No.”

I swing again, and Dmitri catches both wrists. He pins them against the truck above my head, close enough that his coat brushes my sweater, careful enough to keep his hands away from my throat and face.

He adjusts his hold just enough to stop me from twisting. “What were you doing?”

My breath comes hard against his coat. “Leaving.”

“You wouldn’t clear the first gate.” His grip stays firm, but his thumbs don’t press.

I jerk against him.

Across the yard, men wait near the yard office. I turn my head and see Sergei, his face pale under the floodlights, with Dima beside him, coat open and one hand low near his belt. Nobody comes closer.

Dmitri glances toward Sergei, then back at me. “Sergei reported the moment you passed him. He was told not to stop you.”

Heat crawls up my neck even with snow melting on my face.

Shit.