Getting out of there

Her phone buzzed in her hand as she pushed through the turnstile. She glanced down. "Lobby. Two men." The screen glowed in the dim light of the station. She didn't break her stride. Her boots struck the concrete in a steady rhythm as she climbed the stairs to the street. The cool night air hit her face, carrying the smell of roasted nuts from a vendor's cart. Instead of crossing to their building, she turned into the bodega on the corner. The bell above the door chimed, a cheerful, out-of-place sound.

Inside, the aisles were narrow and cramped, shelves crammed with merchandise. She grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler, watching as she moved to the front of the store. She could see their building's lobby through the plate glass window. The men were still there. One was tall and broad, a suit stretched tight across his shoulders. The other was shorter, thinner, with a weasel-like face. They weren't trying to hide.

"Bella?" Marco's voice was a frantic whisper in her ear. "What are you doing? Don't come in here."

"Hacking into the comms?" she murmured, her fingers tracing the condensation on the water bottle.

"I panicked. I'm sorry, I'm just worried. Just stay put. I'm coming to you."

"No." Her voice was flat, cutting through his panic. "Let me handle it." She could feel her mother's presence, a ghost in her mind, her lessons from a lifetime ago resurfacing. Control the room, Bella. Control your body, and you control the room. She took a slow, steady breath, the kind she'd been taught to take before walking into a room full of men who wanted something from her.

She watched the shorter man scan the street, his gaze sweeping past the bodega. For a fraction of a second, their eyes met. His moved on, uninterested. He didn't know her face. They only had a name.

"Marco," she said, her voice calm, measured. "The go-bag. The one in the back of the closet. Get it and anything else you need for your hacking. We won't be going back. And do it quickly.

"Wait what? What's going on? Do you know who they are?"

Isabella was already moving. She set the water bottle on the counter, then turned to the bodega owner, an old man with a rheumy eye and a stained apron. She slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter. "And I need you to forget I was here. Or at least keep what you saw to yourself." The old man's one good eye narrowed. He looked at the twenty, then up at her face, then at her figure as she turned away. His good eye softened. "I didn't see nothing," he grunted as he stared lecherously at her behind.

She turned and walked out the door, the bell chiming again. She kept walking, away from their building, away from the men who were looking for her. "I need you to trust me, Marco. And I need you to move. Now." She could hear his breathing on the other end of the line, a ragged, uneven sound. Then, the scrape of a chair, the rustle of fabric. He was moving.

"Okay, got the stuff, packed my things. What now?" His voice was a mix of panic and confusion. He sounded like a lost child.

"Go down the stairs and out the back. Through the alleyway there's a small path to that bar we always go to. Keep going to the bus stop, I'll meet you there." She walked faster, her boots echoing on the pavement. "And Marco, don't make a sound. Don't call out for me. Just get there and wait."

The connection went silent. She knew he would do as she said. He always did. And so she kept her pace steady, her body loose, her head up. She was just a woman walking home after a night out. Nothing to see here.