Chapter 3 - Eight Minutes
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
My chest heaved as I pressed the speaker to my right ear, my broken left arm throbbing so hard I could feel my pulse beating behind my eyes.
Three times.
Click.
"Talk."
The voice was instant, low, completely devoid of emotion, yet carrying a weight that made the cold bathroom feel suddenly smaller.
My throat closed up. "I... I don't know if you remember me," I whispered, tears spilling over my eyelashes. "I'm... I'm the waitress from the diner on 8th Avenue. The one who spilled coffee."
A beat of absolute silence stretched across the line. No background noise. No radio. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of a powerful man breathing.
"Lena," he said.
The fact that he remembered my name—without checking a list, without hesitation—sent a jolt of electricity through my spine.
CRASH.
The bathroom door bowed inward. A piece of splintered pine clattered onto the tile floor near my knees. Mark’s red, furious face appeared briefly through the gap in the wood before he backed up to take another run at the frame.
"Who is that?" Vincent asked. His voice hadn't raised in volume, but the temperature of his tone plummeted into something lethal.
"My... my husband," I sobbed, pressing my back into the corner beside the bathtub.
"What did he do to you, Lena?"
"He... he broke my arm," I choked out. "He twisted it. It's broken really bad."
The silence on the line this time wasn't empty. It was the quiet of a weapon being loaded.
"Give me the address," Vincent commanded.
I rattled off the street number and the apartment floor in a hurried, terrified whisper, my words catching in my throat as another heavy blow struck the door.
"Is the door locked?" Vincent asked.
"Yes, but he's... he's breaking it down. He's almost through."
"How long do you have before he gets inside?"
"A minute. Maybe less."
On the other end of the line, I heard the subtle rustle of heavy wool, followed by the crisp, metallic clink of a car door opening, and the sudden roar of a high-performance V12 engine turning over.
"Listen to me very carefully, Lena," Vincent said, his voice entirely steady, cutting through my panic like a surgical blade. "Put the phone on the floor. Protect your head. Do not look him in the eye, and do not fight back."
"How long?" I wept, hearing the frame give way with a sickening screech of pulling nails. "How long until you get here?"
May you like
Vincent’s answer was instant, absolute, and devoid of doubt.
"Stay alive for eight minutes."
