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So even if those bastards get into the safe house, Elena can escape here and stay safe until help comes.
"What do you think?" I ask Natalie at last, attempting to gauge her reaction. I've been trying to focus on the surrounds so I don't do something dumb, like launch at her lips-first again.
But I have to look at her now, and my heart beats a little faster when I do.
Natalie's response is measured, her voice steady. "It's much more than I expected. Well-prepared." Her eyes search mine, a question in them about the origin of this place, but she doesn't ask.
I break the silence. "I think it will do very well. Certainly much less conspicuous than the Ruby. But Queens is so far away. I'd worry about Elena being out here."
"I live in Queens," Natalie offers. "So I could check in on her." She looks rather like she wishes she'd kept quiet after she says it, but I just nod.
"If you're sure. I'll also ask my father to provide some men to watch the place." Her lips thin and tighten, but she just nods. "Then we're done here. I'll speak to my father about moving her here as soon as we can, and I'll finalize plans for her to leave the city."
As we step out of the safe house, the quiet Queens street is very still. For a moment, there's a sense of deceptive calm, the kind that precedes a storm. I'm surveying the area, but Natalie is a few steps ahead as I pause to lock the door.
That's when the first shot rings out.
It shatters the silence like a thunderclap, a stark, violent sound that vaults me into action. Instinctively, I shove Natalie to the ground, covering her body with mine. My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline flooding my system. I can hear Natalie's sharp intake of breath, feel her body tense under mine.
"Stay down!" I hiss, my eyes scanning the street for our assailant. There's a second shot, the bullet whizzing past us, embedding itself in the brick wall of the safe house.
I pull out my own gun from my thigh holster, a sleek, well-maintained Beretta that's become an extension of my hand over the years. Rolling off Natalie, I drag her with me behind a parked car, trying to get a visual on the shooter.
Natalie is crouched behind me, her eyes wide. "Who is it?" she whispers, barely audible over the pounding of my own heartbeat.
I don't answer, my focus entirely on locating our attacker. There's movement in the alley across the street—a shadow darting between the dumpsters. I take aim and fire a couple of shots in quick succession, trying to flush the shooter out.
But they're already retreating, disappearing into the maze of alleys and side streets that crisscross Queens. I know we don't have much time; the sound of gunfire will have already attracted attention.
"Come on, we need to move!" I grab Natalie's hand and pull her to her feet. We dart down the street, moving quickly but cautiously, aware that the shooter could still be nearby.
As we run, I'm acutely aware of Natalie's presence beside me. Her breath is ragged, her steps uneven, but she keeps pace.
We duck into a narrow alley, pausing to catch our breath. I press my back against the cool brick wall, gun still in hand, scanning the street for any sign of pursuit.
Natalie's gaze meets mine. "Thank you," she breathes out, her voice shaky. "I had to turn in my—my firearm for work when I went on leave. So I couldn't…"
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My mind is racing, trying to piece together who could be behind the attack. It's a dangerous game we're playing, and the stakes are higher than ever.
"We need to get off the street," she murmurs.
"Yes. But where?"
"Let's go to my apartment," Natalie says after a moment. "I live around here."
* * *
When she said "around here," she wasn't kidding. It's only two blocks down, and when we reach the building, I'm taken aback. It's in a modest, somewhat rundown building, squeezed between a laundromat and a small grocery store.
We ascend a narrow staircase, and then Natalie unlocks a door on the third floor, and I step into her world.
The apartment is small, practically claustrophobic. The living room, if it can be called that, is a tight space with a worn-out sofa and a TV perched on an old coffee table. There's a tiny kitchenette in one corner and a door that I assume leads to an even smaller bedroom.
I can't help but ask, "But where on earth do you entertain?" The words slip out before I can stop them, and as soon as they're spoken, I realize how out of touch they sound.
Natalie gives me a half-smile. "This isn't exactly a place for entertaining," she replies. "It's just... functional, I guess."
I look around, taking in the stark reality of her life. The simplicity of her apartment, the lack of any luxury or excess, hits me hard. It's a living space born out of necessity, not choice.
