ONE SEVENTY SIX
A lump formed in my throat. I knew what that meant. If we were to get out, it wouldn’t be easy. Getting past the barricades and checkpoints would be nearly impossible. Dominic’s mind was already working, planning, calculating, but even he knew it would take more than a few good ideas to get us out of this mess.
The anchor continued on with the news, but I barely heard the words anymore. The reality of our situation had taken root, its sharp claws digging into my chest. New York, the city we had once known and navigated with ease, was now a prison. Every corner, every alleyway, every street had turned into a potential trap.
We were surrounded by chaos, and there was no way out.
I found myself gravitating toward the front window again, almost out of instinct. My fingers curled around the edge of the thick curtain as I peeled it back just a fraction, peeking outside into the wide-open landscape of the Catskills. The trees loomed tall and stoic in the early afternoon light, their bare branches creaking gently under a soft, persistent breeze that swept over the hills. Everything looked deceptively calm.
Too calm.
My heart hammered against my ribcage with a shaky rhythm, each beat reminding me that looks could be painfully, dangerously deceiving.
I scanned the gravel driveway, the long, winding dirt road that led up to the estate from the main road several miles away. I looked for anything—anything that could hint that someone was coming. The glint of metal through the trees. The crunch of tires against loose gravel. The sudden, unnatural rustle of leaves that didn’t match the slow sway of the wind. But so far, nothing. No signs of movement. No suspicious vehicles. No squad cars.
Still, I couldn’t trust it. I couldn’t trust any of it.
I let the curtain fall back into place and began pacing across the living room, my arms crossed tightly over my chest as if I could physically hold myself together by sheer will. Every few minutes, I'd drift back to the window and look again, as if the few seconds away had somehow changed the entire landscape. Each time, the same, the quiet, the stillness. But it didn’t comfort me. If anything, it made me more anxious, because I knew how quickly that could change. How fast silence could turn into sirens. How peace could dissolve into a nightmare.
The TV buzzed on in the background, the same news anchor still droning on, the updates coming in repetitive, nervous cycles. Talking about how law enforcement was focusing their sweeps through the city and the major boroughs, through Brooklyn and the Bronx, through Queens and Staten Island. There had been no mention yet of the upstate areas. No mention of the Catskills.
Not yet.
But it was only a matter of time.
Dominic hadn’t said much in the last hour, but his pacing mirrored mine in a way that made it obvious he was just as on edge. He moved more purposefully, though, his heavy steps thudding against the wooden floorboards, his gun still clutched in one hand like an extension of his body. Every few laps around the living room, he’d glance toward the back window, then to the front, then back to me, as if reassuring himself that nothing had shifted. That we were still invisible out here. At least for now.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass for a second, letting the chill shock me out of the spiral in my mind.
The Catskills had always been a place of retreat. Quiet, rural, disconnected enough from the pulse of New York City that you could pretend the chaos of the world didn’t exist. That had been the exact reason I’d bought this estate then—a rash, impulsive decision fueled by a desperate need to have something of my own. Somewhere safe. Somewhere nobody would think to look for me if things ever went wrong.
Back then, it had seemed almost silly. A "just in case" move for a future that seemed more fantasy than reality. But now, as I stared out at the endless sprawl of trees and mountains and rough dirt roads, I could’ve dropped to my knees in gratitude for the foresight.
If I hadn't gotten this place when I did, we wouldn’t even have a prayer.
A fortress in disguise. No neighbors for miles. The nearest town was a ghost town even on its busiest days. A single narrow road connected us to anything resembling civilization, and it was overgrown enough that most people missed the turn entirely.
It felt vital. Life-saving.
I paced again, my heart thudding. Every time I passed the window, I’d steal another glance. Still nothing. No movement along the driveway. No engines roaring in the distance. No glint of sun against metal that would signal vehicles creeping toward us.
The news hadn’t said anything about expanding the search upstate yet, but that meant nothing. Things moved faster than the media could report sometimes. Especially when fugitives were involved. All it would take was a single whisper—a half-sighting, a tip from someone looking to cash in on the reward—and the SWAT teams would be swarming up this hill like vultures on a carcass.
The thought made my stomach twist painfully.
Dominic stopped in front of the window next to me. His broad frame practically blocked out the light as he stared out into the woods, his eyes narrowing, calculating. He had that soldier look on his face again—the one that said he was already planning ten steps ahead, already thinking about choke points, exit strategies, fallback positions.
"Still clear," he muttered, but there was no relief in his voice. Only the heavy burden of for now.
I nodded stiffly, wrapping my arms tighter around myself. The house was warm, but I couldn’t shake the chill that had settled into my bones. The kind of cold that came from fear, from knowing that no matter how many steps ahead you thought you were, fate had a nasty way of catching up.
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