Emily walked calmly but with purpose as she maneuvered through the crowded streets. If she weren’t terrified, she would have laughed at the fact that no one gave her hospital gown/hoodie/cutoffs ensemble a second look. She needed a phone, but she had no money and she needed to be extremely cautious with tech. The first order of business was clothes. The guys had dropped her near NYU, and she had hurried away after declining Dwight’s request for her number. Now in the Meatpacking District just east of her neighborhood, she rounded a corner and saw the answer to her prayers.
Gansevoort Yoga, Caroline’s yoga studio. Her feet were bleeding onto the flip flops from the run to the marina, and she was wearing a paper gown and a stained Mets hoodie, so she stuck her nose in the air and waltzed by the receptionist like she didn’t exist. The young woman at the desk didn’t spare Emily a glance.
She located Caroline’s locker and entered her combination—she used her birthday for everything from her ATM PIN to her Amazon password—and jackpot: shoes and socks and a Lululemon outfit still in the bag. Emily thanked the stars for her sweet, sweet, shopaholic friend. She used the cosmetics and shower supplies set out for members and changed into the leggings, sneakers, and lavender tank. Time to bolt. She glanced around the corner and scanned the reception area. It was empty except for a guy in a suit chatting with the receptionist. She would have thought nothing of it, if not for two things: every few seconds he spared a glance toward the hallway, and when he straightened, there was an unmistakable bulge under his suit jacket. Emily was forced to acknowledge the fact that they hadn’t simply removed her tracker; they had replaced it. She retreated into the locker room and gingerly peeled back the adhesive bandage on her shoulder, relieved to see the unmistakable grid of a tracker was embedded in the latex strip and not reinserted into the wound. She removed the bandage then stuck it on the bottom of the tote bag of a woman just finishing a shower. Then Emily stepped out into the hall. She had something to do while she waited.
There was a fire exit at the end of the hall with a probably non-functioning alarm and roof access. There was also a huge tip-out window typical of these old converted factories. She walked casually to the end of the hall and pushed the two-ton window open. The back alley looked clear, and there was a thick pipe running down the side of the building that was within reach. Perfect. She hurried back to the locker room, fished the rumpled gown out of the trash and tore a small piece from the sleeve. Returning to the window she leaned over to the pipe and caught the paper fabric on an exposed bolt. She left the window ajar and walked back to the locker room. Next, she sought out the kindest-looking woman in the room. Bingo. A bubbly redhead was smiling as an older woman swiped through pictures of her grandchild on her phone.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m a pediatrician and my phone just died. Can I borrow yours to quickly check in with my office?”
The redhead didn’t blink. She smiled and handed off her phone, then returned to the other woman’s grandchild slideshow. Emily needed to get in touch with Nathan without tipping anyone off. She called the K-B main number and requested her party. Three rings later, she answered with a crisp, “Alex Peters.”
“Alex, it’s Emily Webster.”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Emma Porter?”
“What can I do for you, Emily?”
“I need you to give a message to Nathan.”
“Yeah, I’m going to have to decline.”
“This is life or death, Alex. Please.”
“Unfortunately, I have to go. I’m late for a meeting.”
Emily played the only card she had.
“Look, I know it was you who outed me to the press, and I can prove it.” She was bluffing, but it was a good bet. “The very least Nathan will do is ruin you professionally. Do this for me, and I will owe you.” After a pregnant pause and an audible sigh, she spoke.
“What’s the message?”
“Tell him Emily said to meet her at the location of the first rescue at midnight tonight.”
“Fine.”
“Repeat it.”
“Meet you at midnight at the first rescue. Is that a new club or something?”
“Or something.”
“Whatever.”
“Do it now Alex. Please. It’s important.”
“I’ll do it as soon as I hang up on you.”
And with that, the line went dead.
Assuming Alex did what she was asked, Nathan would get the message and meet her at The Jane Hotel where he had saved her two years ago. Emily returned the phone and was revisiting her mental checklist when the woman with the tracker-attached tote bag rushed by and exited through the back—the back door was something of a chic exit celebrities used to avoid attention, and regular members had taken to using it to look like celebrities. Emily waited five minutes, then opened the door to the locker room and walked right out the front door. The group of women who passed her at the entrance no doubt assumed her sweaty brow and messy hair were the result of a strenuous Bikram class. Warrior pose, indeed.
“The trackers aren’t broken. The one in her shoe is currently heading down I-95 toward Miami. The one in her purse is in an alley in midtown. The one implanted in her shoulder stopped sending. Last ping was on the Upper West Side. After that, dead.”
His phone chirped and he checked the screen. Alex. He silenced the call and continued peering over Twitch’s shoulder at the three pulsing dots on the monitor. The phone squawked again.
“Alex, I can’t talk right now.