Read Online Dark Angel 03: Broken Dream by Eden Maguire - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eden Maguire
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open his mouth to gloat or deliver a victory speech. Instead, he stared at me with expressionless eyes, keeping the knife raised.
The only thing I could do was cut and run. I turned back the way I’d come, away from the Exit sign towards what I hoped was the elevator shaft. I sprinted in the dark between concrete pillars, across empty parking bays. When I didn’t hear my attacker’s footsteps coming after me, I glanced over my shoulder to see that he was in fact right there behind me. I stopped suddenly, turned and swung my bag at him. Its buckle caught the side of the face and I was shocked to see blood spurt from a cut above his eye.
It ran down his cheek and into his mouth. He touched it with his fingertips, giving me a split second to run on ahead and hope that he would lose track of me beyond the next pillar. I got my bearings, spotted the sign for the elevator, allowed myself to hope.
Then the doors opened and Macy stepped out.
‘There you are, Tania!’ she cried. ‘I’ve been up and down, up and down in the elevator trying to find you. What the hell happened to you?’
5
M acy appeared and the guy with the knife ran off. White striplights came on and flooded the underground car park.
‘You look terrible. What happened?’ she asked.
I stumbled into the elevator with her. The door closed behind us and I felt the lift judder then rise. ‘I just ran into the guy who stole my phone – the one in Central Park. He had a knife.’
‘You’re sure it was the same guy?’
‘One hundred per cent.’ I still shook with fear and felt a big knot form in my stomach and threaten to rise into my throat.
‘You have a stalker!’ Macy cried, pulling me out of the elevator through the ground-floor lobby and out on to Lincoln Plaza.
‘Oh God, I feel nauseous!’
‘Take deep breaths. Is that better? OK, now quickly, Tania – call the cops!’
‘Wait. First let me speak with Orlando.’ Before I did anything else, I needed to hear his voice. But when I called his number, it went straight on to not-available-and-speak-after-the tone. ‘Orlando, it’s me,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Call me. I want you to meet me outside the Lincoln Center.’
‘Now the cops,’ Macy insisted. While I’d been trying to contact Orlando she’d had a better idea than dialling 911. ‘We get a cab to drive us to the nearest station. You tell them face to face.’
I was too shocked and confused to argue
and soon I found myself in a taxi with Macy beside me asking the driver which precinct we were in and telling him to drive us the fastest route to the cop station.
But you get nowhere fast in Central Manhattan. We hit all the red lights and got stuck behind guys riding Harleys all dressed up as Santa Claus – a phalanx of them stretched out across the street. The cab driver had seen all that city life has to offer so eight office-party Santas on motorbikes drew no reaction.
‘How far now?’ Macy demanded. She kept checking to see if I was still about to vomit or pass out. ‘Preferably the latter,’ she muttered, uncertain of the level of sympathy we’d get from our driver if I puked all over his cab.
Looking in his mirror and judging the situation on the back seat, he cut down a couple of side alleys and when he found a delivery van blocking our way he swore and blasted his horn. No one came so he gave a second blast, again without a result. He turned and told us it would be faster to get out and walk. ‘Take a left. Walk two blocks and you’re there.’
Macy thanked him, paid the fare and dragged me down the alley. Five minutes later we were facing a female cop across a high counter.
‘My buddy is being stalked by a maniac with a knife,’ Macy announced.
The cop didn’t look up from her computer screen. ‘Anybody get hurt?’ she asked. She had a great figure and wore her uniform well. Her blonde hair was held back in a neat ponytail and her face had a Scandinavian look – high forehead, small nose, strong
The only thing I could do was cut and run. I turned back the way I’d come, away from the Exit sign towards what I hoped was the elevator shaft. I sprinted in the dark between concrete pillars, across empty parking bays. When I didn’t hear my attacker’s footsteps coming after me, I glanced over my shoulder to see that he was in fact right there behind me. I stopped suddenly, turned and swung my bag at him. Its buckle caught the side of the face and I was shocked to see blood spurt from a cut above his eye.
It ran down his cheek and into his mouth. He touched it with his fingertips, giving me a split second to run on ahead and hope that he would lose track of me beyond the next pillar. I got my bearings, spotted the sign for the elevator, allowed myself to hope.
Then the doors opened and Macy stepped out.
‘There you are, Tania!’ she cried. ‘I’ve been up and down, up and down in the elevator trying to find you. What the hell happened to you?’
5
M acy appeared and the guy with the knife ran off. White striplights came on and flooded the underground car park.
‘You look terrible. What happened?’ she asked.
I stumbled into the elevator with her. The door closed behind us and I felt the lift judder then rise. ‘I just ran into the guy who stole my phone – the one in Central Park. He had a knife.’
‘You’re sure it was the same guy?’
‘One hundred per cent.’ I still shook with fear and felt a big knot form in my stomach and threaten to rise into my throat.
‘You have a stalker!’ Macy cried, pulling me out of the elevator through the ground-floor lobby and out on to Lincoln Plaza.
‘Oh God, I feel nauseous!’
‘Take deep breaths. Is that better? OK, now quickly, Tania – call the cops!’
‘Wait. First let me speak with Orlando.’ Before I did anything else, I needed to hear his voice. But when I called his number, it went straight on to not-available-and-speak-after-the tone. ‘Orlando, it’s me,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Call me. I want you to meet me outside the Lincoln Center.’
‘Now the cops,’ Macy insisted. While I’d been trying to contact Orlando she’d had a better idea than dialling 911. ‘We get a cab to drive us to the nearest station. You tell them face to face.’
I was too shocked and confused to argue
and soon I found myself in a taxi with Macy beside me asking the driver which precinct we were in and telling him to drive us the fastest route to the cop station.
But you get nowhere fast in Central Manhattan. We hit all the red lights and got stuck behind guys riding Harleys all dressed up as Santa Claus – a phalanx of them stretched out across the street. The cab driver had seen all that city life has to offer so eight office-party Santas on motorbikes drew no reaction.
‘How far now?’ Macy demanded. She kept checking to see if I was still about to vomit or pass out. ‘Preferably the latter,’ she muttered, uncertain of the level of sympathy we’d get from our driver if I puked all over his cab.
Looking in his mirror and judging the situation on the back seat, he cut down a couple of side alleys and when he found a delivery van blocking our way he swore and blasted his horn. No one came so he gave a second blast, again without a result. He turned and told us it would be faster to get out and walk. ‘Take a left. Walk two blocks and you’re there.’
Macy thanked him, paid the fare and dragged me down the alley. Five minutes later we were facing a female cop across a high counter.
‘My buddy is being stalked by a maniac with a knife,’ Macy announced.
The cop didn’t look up from her computer screen. ‘Anybody get hurt?’ she asked. She had a great figure and wore her uniform well. Her blonde hair was held back in a neat ponytail and her face had a Scandinavian look – high forehead, small nose, strong
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