The panic alert scream from my phone was like a knife to the chest.
Katherine at Bella Vista Restaurant. Two blocks from where Davidson works.
"Go." Thomas doesn't need an explanation - he sees my face and knows. "I'll send backup."
Vincent's already moving, keys in hand. We hit the street running.
Traffic is a nightmare. During lunch hour in Manhattan, cars are gridlocked, welded together. Vincent drives on sidewalks, leans on the horn, forces gaps that don't exist. My hands grip the door handle so hard that they leave marks in the leather.
Every worst-case scenario plays through my head. Davidson with a gun. Katherine bleeding. Another building, another explosion, another moment of being too late to save her.
My phone shows her location, stationary. Not moving. Either she's okay or -
I can't finish that thought.
"Three minutes," Vincent says, running a red light.
Feels like three hours.
