“She knows,” he whispered.

The tires of the approaching sedan shrieked as they hit a patch of black ice.

The car fishtailed, its high beams cutting through the dark alley and blinding me for a second.

Harrison grabbed my elbow, his grip surprisingly tight, and pulled me toward the brick alcove of a locked warehouse door.

“Get back,” he muttered, his breath coming in white, ragged plumes.

Elena opened her door fully, her heels clicking rapidly on the pavement as she stepped out to stand by the rear fender of our car.

“Claire, get in!” she called out, her voice sharp with authority.

The speeding vehicle corrected itself and slammed to a halt twenty feet away, blocking the exit to the main street.

It was a heavy, dark Mercedes, its engine idling with a low, menacing rumble.

The headlights stayed on, casting long, distorted shadows of Harrison and me against the brick wall.

“Is that her?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“No,” Harrison said, his teeth chattering from the cold. “That’s her driver, Miller. She must have tracked my phone.”