Chapter 1 Echoes of Grease

Chapter 1: Echoes of Grease

POV: Lina

The smell never really washes off. You can scrub until your skin is raw, but the diner stays with you. It gets into your pores and your hair. I walked home with the stale scent of burnt decaf and old fryer grease clinging to my clothing.

I fumbled with my keys, dropped them on the table, and just stood there in the dark. I didn't even bother to turn on the light.

My feet were throbbing. There was a sharp, rhythmic stabbing behind my left heel that made every step feel like walking on broken glass. I didn't even complain about the pain anymore. It was just a part of my daily life.

I did my usual check of the apartment anyway. It was automatic by now. My eyes scanned the room in the gloom. The screwdriver was still jammed into the window frame. The loose board on the fire escape hadn't been touched. It wasn't anxiety. It was just the only way I knew how to feel safe. Some kids learn to ride bikes, but I learned which floorboards groaned.

The phone buzzed.

It said Unknown, of course. I let it vibrate against the wood three times before I picked it up.

"Yeah."

"Lina Hale." The voice was flat and bored. "You’re late. Again."

"The check is in the mail," I lied. My eyes drifted under the bed, staring at the dark corner where my backpack lived.

"We’re done with checks." I heard a car door slam on his end. It was a heavy, expensive sound. "Five minutes out. Be there or don’t. Honestly, it’s easier for us if you’re cornered."

He hung up. No goodbye, just the click of a dead line.

My hands didn't shake. I hated that about myself. I pulled the bag out from under the bed, opened the old dictionary, and made sure the three hundred bucks was still tucked inside the hollowed-out pages. I grabbed my jacket, zipped it up, and that was it.

I always traveled light. No photos, no keepsakes. My mother’s only legacy was the memory of a beige coat walking away at a bus station. My father was just a blank space on a birth certificate. People talk about freedom like it's a beautiful thing, but they usually say that from the safety of a warm living room. To me, freedom just felt like being cold and alone.

Then I heard it. A low, heavy engine idling on the street below.

I moved to the window and peeled back an inch of the curtain. A black sedan was double-parked. Two guys got out wearing boots and heavy jackets, the kind of clothes people wear when they expect to get dirty. One of them looked up, and for a second, I thought he saw me through the glass.

I didn't wait around.

I avoided the hallway and the elevator because the elevator was a trap. I went straight for the window. The rain hit me hard, thin and cold. The fire escape was slick and rusted. I kept my weight on the balls of my feet, praying the metal wouldn't shriek and give me away.

I was halfway down to the second floor when my front door gave way upstairs. It was a loud, heavy crack of wood splitting.

I dropped the last six feet into the alley. My boots hit the wet pavement with a hard thud. My left knee buckled into a pile of wet garbage, but I scrambled right back up. I knew the gap in the chain-link fence by heart.

"She’s in the alley!" someone yelled.

I didn't look back.

The rain was coming down harder now, blurring the streetlights. My lungs were burning. Years of cheap cigarettes were catching up to me at the absolute worst time. I dodged behind a row of delivery pallets, my heart pounding hard against my ribs.

Every turn I made felt like a trap. I could hear the footsteps behind me, but they weren't getting closer. They were just staying back, keeping pace.

They weren't trying to catch me yet. They were herding me.

They wanted me at the river.

I broke cover and ran onto the boardwalk. The wood was black and slick with rain. To my left, the warehouses were dark and empty. To my right, the river was a fast, black mess. The wind cut right through my jacket. I have always hated the cold. It was a stupid thing to think about when I was running for my life, but the thought wouldn't leave me.

The Old Iron Bridge was about a hundred yards away. If I could reach the shipping containers on the far side, I had a chance.

The sedan got there first.

It swung sideways, tires screeching on the wet wood, blocking the entrance to the bridge. Both doors flew open. Two flashlights cut through the dark, blinding me.

I skidded to a stop.

The third guy was right behind me now, breathing heavily, swinging a length of lead pipe by his side. I looked at the fence, but it was topped with razor wire. I looked at the railing. It was a thirty-foot drop into the water.

They closed in slowly and patiently. They knew the math was on their side.

"End of the road, Lina." The guy in front sounded almost sorry. "Hand over the bag. Come with us, and maybe you walk away."

He was lying. You could hear the hollow ring in his voice.

I looked down at the water. It looked like ink. Then I looked back at the three of them.

There was no way out on foot. Going with them meant ending up in a shallow hole somewhere.

I stepped up onto the railing.

He lunged forward, his fingers brushing my ankle for a split second, but I was already leaning out into the dark