Instinctually, the manglared down at his only weapon as it bounced across the pavement. Ashe leaned forward to reclaim the weapon with his left hand, Anyafired a side kick to his knee, folding the leg backward and sendingthe sickening sound of bone, ligaments, and muscle tearing andseparating. The agony of the kick sent the boy’s kidnapper to theground in a fog of Armenian profanity.
Anya sensed, more thansaw, the police officers closing on her with pistols raised. Theterrified boy trembled in shock and disbelief as one of the officersscooped him up and continued sprinting, putting distance between theboy and the scene. Anya leapt over the man and picked up speed as shecrossed Sixteenth Street and turned east. Reaching full stride, shedared a glance over her shoulder to discover two uniformed policeofficers in pursuit. The larger of the two wouldn’t have thestamina to continue more than another minute, but the leaner, youngerofficer was slowly closing the distance. He would be an issue if Anyacouldn’t find an alternative route before reaching Sixth Avenue.
Still running as fastas her legs would carry her, the exit she so desperately neededappeared as if God Himself had placed it just for her. A massivestone church stood on her right, but the church wasn’t her escape.It was the alley beside the church that called to her. She had a merefraction of a second to make the decision to turn down the alley orcontinue east on Sixteenth. Many of New York City’s alleys endedwith the brick backside of a building. If the alley beside the churchwas a dead end, she’d be caught with no possibility of escape,short of fighting and potentially killing the pursuing NYPD officer.By her estimation, Sixth Avenue was another five hundred feetaway—more than enough ground for the cop to chew up the distancebetween them. Fighting a police officer in the open streets ofManhattan was an immeasurably worse option than standing toe to toewith him in the back of an alley with no witnesses.
With her feet poundingthe sidewalk, she slowed just enough to make the turn into the alley.Two dumpsters, piles of garbage, and wooden pallets greeted her asshe accelerated into the shaded corridor. She passed the pallets andsacrificed two seconds to scatter them across the greasy alley,hopefully creating enough of an obstacle to build a few more second’sseparation between her and the sprinter in blue behind her. Just asshe’d feared, the alley ended fifty feet ahead against a block wallextending into the sky.
With her heart poundingand her lungs chugging as much air as she could take in, Anya focusedher attention between the pallets behind her and the two doorways toher left and right. The silhouette of the officer filled the openingof the alley, diminishing what little lead she had, but where otherswould’ve panicked and possibly surrendered, Anya’s years oftraining and survival gave her the fortitude to focus on the optionsand make a decision. She sidestepped and grabbed the handle of a dooron her right, but it resisted as she rattled the heavy steel againstits bolt. Abandoning door number one, she shot to a second one acrossthe alley. Her hand met the handle simultaneously with the officerleaping across the pallets like a hurdler. He was only seconds awaywhen Anya gave the door a yank. To her delight, it gave way, and shestumbled backward into the center of the alley with the broken handlestill in her fist. An instant glance told her the door hadn’topened; instead, the handle had separated from its base. Withprecious seconds wasted, Anya mentally measured the distance to thesprinting cop.
Why hasn’t hedrawn his gun yet?
A quick examination ofthe broken handle revealed a rusty, jagged edge. It wasn’t theperfect weapon but certainly an option. Anya stepped back into afighter’s stance and surveyed her environment one final time.Seizing the only remaining option, she bolted forward toward theoncoming officer and launched the broken handle toward him. Her aimwas better than she’d dared to hope. The spinning missile arcedthrough the air directly toward the officer’s head, startling NewYork’s finest and causing him to change stride and brush off theweapon. This gave Anya part of a second—exactly the time sheneeded—to leap into the air, plant her left foot on the rim of afilthy dumpster, and propel herself skyward toward an open window onthe second floor of the church.
She caught the sillwith her fingertips and scampered up the hundred-year-old wall,sending debris pouring from beneath each of her feet as she beggedfor purchase on the decaying surface.
The officer yelled frombelow. “Hey! Stop! I’m not going to arrest you. I just want totalk to you. You’re not in trouble. You’re a hero.”
The last thing Anyawanted was to be a hero, and the second to last thing she wanted tobe was someone having a conversation with a New York City policeofficer.
Finally, the toe of herleft shoe found the hold she’d wanted so badly, and her long, tonedbody shot through the open window like an arrow from an archer’sbow. She hit the floor in a shoulder roll and came up on the balls ofher feet, her eyes scanning every inch of the room. A woman in anapron with a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other screamed asif she’d seen the devil himself. The woman belted out a prayer inSpanish and crossed herself as the broom she’d been holding fell tothe floor.
Anya searched thedepths of her mind for any Spanish phrase she could create to calmthe woman. With nothing else coming to mind, she calmly said, “Dioste bendiga,” hoping God’s blessing would keep the woman frompanicking any further.
With no time to stayand catch the woman if she passed out, Anya pressed through the door,glancing both directions down the long corridor. She turned right,away from Sixteenth Street, and picked up speed as she sprinted thelength of the hallway. A ninety-degree turn to the left told Anyashe’d reached the rear of the building, and the
