“Five minutes,” I whispered to myself, watching the digital clock on the burner phone.

My sweat smelled of sour fear and damp plaster.

“You are making this so much worse for yourself!” Paul yelled.

The metal doorknob rattled violently, twisting back and forth.

I closed my eyes and prayed for the pain to just numb my entire body.

The clock on the screen ticked to seven minutes.

Then, the sudden sound of splintering wood echoed from the front of the apartment.

It did not come from the bathroom door.

It was the heavy oak front door downstairs being kicked completely off its hinges.

I heard Paul gasp in the hallway.

“Who the hell are you?” Paul’s voice lost its anger, replaced by a sudden, high pitch of terror.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps walked across our cheap linoleum.

“Where is she?” Vincent’s voice was calm, almost pleasant.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paul stammered, his boots shuffling backward. “Get out of my place!”

There was a dull, wet thud, followed by the heavy sound of a body hitting the floorboards.

Paul let out a sharp, pathetic whine.

Two swift, polite knocks sounded on the bathroom door.

“Lena,” Vincent said. “It is safe now.”

I stood up slowly, using the rim of the sink to balance my weight.

With my good hand, I turned the small lock and pulled the door inward.

Vincent stood in the narrow hallway, wearing a dark wool overcoat that was damp from the rain.

His gray eyes scanned my face, then moved down to my swollen, misshapen forearm.

Behind him, two large men in dark suits held Paul pinned face-down on the rug.

Paul’s nose was bleeding onto the cheap carpet, his eyes wide with horror.

“Can you walk?” Vincent asked.

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

He reached out and gently placed his gloved hand under my right elbow.