New York City
April 20
The following morning, Calliope stood on her front stoop and stretched her quads. Years of yoga and running had honed her body, and she pulled her ankle behind her and up to touch the back of her head. As was her habit, she checked her surroundings. There was the usual activity on her quiet Brooklyn street; a mother pushed her child in a stroller toward the small park on the corner. An older man with a bushy beard sat on a bench outside the small Italian pastry shop, sipping coffee, watching the world go by, and enjoying his day.
Calliope trotted down her steps and started off at a slow jog. Ahead on the corner, a man emerged from the passenger door of a white van with a logo of a painting company on the side. The man moved slowly, one eye on her as he fiddled with a paint can. As she approached, he moved to block her path, but Calliope was nimble and skirted him. Asshole.
It wasn’t until he turned as she ran by and tried to grab her wrist that Calliope registered alarm. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the man outside the pastry shop stand with an urgency that belied his age. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder, and her concern turned to panic as the man from the van began chasing her. She picked up speed and rounded the corner. In the middle of the next block, two men emerged from a dark sedan and headed in her direction. She started to flag them down for help when she noticed one of the men withdrawing a taser from his coat.
Calliope knew the basics of how to keep safe in a city. Her mother had drummed various strategies into her before she left their quaint town, and she’d had some training. She moved into the street hoping to draw the attention of a passing car or even hail a cab. She aimed for the Henry Street subway station; even at this early hour, there would be activity and people. The two men from the sedan veered into the street on foot, the pursuer from the painting van was about thirty yards back. She rounded a corner and slipped into the twenty-four-hour donut shop, Graphic Donuts, and ducked into a booth as the three men raced by. She darted out again in the opposite direction. She was moving away from the busier sections of Henry Street and Montague Street up ahead, but she needed to be where these men were not.
She made quick, frequent turns as she raced through Brooklyn Heights. There. She spotted the building about halfway down the block. The four-story structure was being converted from a single-family home to high-end condos. Opaque plastic covered the front door and the windows. A dumpster in a parking spot on the street was filled with broken bathroom fixtures, old lights, and plaster chunks. Halfway down the block, the man ostensibly hired to watch the place stood with his back to the building, smoking a joint and scrolling through his phone.
Calliope darted up the broad cement stairs and slipped inside. She leaped up the remnants of what was once a grand staircase, raced down the second-floor hall, and up another flight, mindful of the fact that the staircase currently had no banister. On the third floor, she moved gingerly around sawhorses and equipment—presumably what the man downstairs was hired to protect—and approached the front window.
The street was quiet. A couple of teenagers with backpacks walked casually, staring at their phones. Their phones. Calliope reached for her iPhone strapped to her arm. Oddly, her first instinct wasn’t to dial 911 but rather to call a certain Navy SEAL. She forced down the antiquated damsel in distress fantasy floating around in her head and rationalized the police would surely ask questions she was unwilling or unable to answer. There. Perfectly reasonable excuse. She brought up her contacts. At the bottom, she touched the entry labeled, Tox, and the call rang through. A grizzly bear answered.
“This better be good.”
“Tox?”
“Calliope?”
“I need your help I think.”
“What’s going on?”
“I went out for a run this morning, and three men started following me. Chasing me really. Still are, I think.”
Calliope could hear activity over the line and a bam followed by a muffled curse, then the applause of feet flying down the stairs.
“Where are you?”
“Brooklyn Heights. Hicks Street I think. I’m hiding inside a building under construction.”
“Share your location.”
She hit the location-share icon on her phone.
“Done.”
“Shit. Fuck. At this hour the fastest way to get to you is the subway. It’ll take me thirty minutes. Can you hide?”
A car horn blared over the line and she could hear Tox swearing.
“Yes. There are plenty of hiding places, and there’s no sign of the men right now.”
“Okay, good. Get someplace where you can watch the street but scope out a hiding place if they show. I’m going to lose you on the train, but I’ll be there.”
“Tox?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you stay on the phone with me until I lose you?”
“You bet.”
And just like that Tox switched gears, his ploy to keep her calm obvious but appreciated.