Page 88 of Enforcer Daddy
My neck prickled—that old feeling from the streets that meant something was off. No smoke smell, no heat, no visual signs of fire. Just the alarm shrieking and hundreds of people moving like cattle through a chute. Anton was three people ahead of me now, helping an elderly man with a walker navigate the stairs.Mikhail brought up the rear of our floor's group, professional spacing that meant they had me covered front and back.
But something still felt wrong. Maybe it was paranoia from yesterday's revelations about the Morozov surveillance. Maybe it was the fact that I now had enemies I'd never met who wanted me delivered alive for questioning. Or maybe it was just that I'd learned to trust my instincts, and right now they were screaming that this was too convenient, too organized, too perfectly timed when Dmitry was away.
I pulled out the encrypted phone Ivan had given me, but down in the stairwell surrounded by concrete, there was no signal. The regular phone had one bar that flickered in and out. I stayed close to the wall, kept my head down, and counted floors as we descended.
Third floor. Second. Almost out. Almost safe.
The prickling on my neck got worse.
Thelobbywaspackedwall to wall with bodies, everyone funneling toward the main exit in a slow-moving river that reminded me of subway platforms at rush hour. The marble floor squeaked under dozens of feet, the sound mixing with complaining voices and at least three crying children to create a chaos that made my teeth ache.
Bear pressed harder against my leg, his little body trembling with the need to escape the noise and crowd. I kept him close, worried someone would step on him in the press of bodies. The main exit was maybe thirty feet away, but at this pace, it would take five minutes to reach it.
A hand touched my elbow, and I tensed before registering the uniform—firefighter gear, reflective stripes catching the lobby lights, FDNY helmet tucked under one arm. The man's face wasprofessionally tired, that particular exhaustion of city workers who'd seen everything twice.
"Ma'am, service exit for anyone with pets," he said, gesturing toward a side corridor I'd never noticed before. "Less crowded, easier for the dog. Don't want him getting trampled."
His badge read Martinez, and his radio crackled with official-sounding chatter—something about ventilation systems and checking floors systematically.
"I'm supposed to stay with—" I started, looking for Anton in the crowd.
"The two security guys? They already spoke to me about you, no need to worry." Martinez smiled, the expression practiced but not fake. "Just trying to make everyone's life easier. Your dog's about to have a panic attack."
He was right. Bear was shaking hard enough that his tags jingled, pressed so tight against my leg I could feel his racing heartbeat through my jeans. I spotted Anton near the main exit, helping organize the elderly residents into a group. I caught his eye and pointed toward the service corridor, mouthing "dog" and gesturing at Bear.
Anton looked at Martinez, recognition flickering across his face, and nodded. He held up one finger—wait one minute—then turned back to the elderly woman he was helping.
"Other folks with pets are already heading that way," Martinez said, and sure enough, I could see a woman with a Yorkie in a carrier moving toward the service corridor, an older man with a bulldog following.
My instincts were still prickling, but everything looked legitimate. Anton had recognized Martinez. Other residents were following the same path. The fire marshal's gear was worn and authentic, not some costume rental. His radio continued its official chatter. Even the way he stood—patient but ready to move—spoke of real training.
"Alright," I said, adjusting my grip on Bear's leash.
Martinez led the way, not rushing, keeping pace with the older man with the bulldog. The service corridor was cooler, quieter, the walls painted that industrial beige that marked areas residents weren't supposed to see. Our footsteps echoed off concrete, and Bear's trembling eased slightly away from the crowd's chaos.
"False alarm, probably," Martinez said conversationally, his radio squawking agreement about no smoke detected. "Happens all the time in these older buildings. One person burns toast, whole building evacuates."
"Third time this month," the woman with the Yorkie agreed. "My Precious hates it every time."
The service door opened into a loading bay I'd never seen before, despite living here for three weeks. Morning air hit my face, cooler than expected, carrying the smell of garbage from the dumpsters and exhaust from the street. My eyes took a moment to adjust from the corridor's fluorescent lights to natural daylight.
More firefighters moved through the space with purpose—two checking something on a clipboard, another speaking into his radio. A fire truck was parked outside, lights flashing but no siren, and I could hear more sirens approaching from the distance. The normalcy of it, the routine response to what was clearly a false alarm, should have been reassuring.
"Parking garage access is clearest," Martinez said, leading our small group down the ramp. "We're routing residents out through there to avoid the congestion at the main entrance."
The parking garage was lit by harsh fluorescents that turned everything gray-green and corpse-pale. Our footsteps echoed off concrete pillars, and Bear's claws clicked against the floor in a rapid rhythm that matched my accelerating heartbeat.
But other firefighters were here too, directing residents toward the exit, checking off apartments on tablets, looking official and bored in the way of city employees at yet another false alarm. One of them nodded at Martinez, a casual acknowledgment between coworkers.
The white van sat twenty feet away, angled across two parking spaces with its back doors open. "Facilities Management" was painted on the side in blue letters, the city logo underneath, amber lights rotating on top in that slow pattern of official vehicles.
Another siren wailed outside, the sound echoing through the parking garage like a scream.
Bear started trembling harder as the fire truck outside roared closer, its siren joining the cacophony already echoing through the concrete structure. The sound bounced off walls and ceiling, multiplying into a wave that made my own teeth ache. His whole body shook against my leg, and when an ambulance added its higher-pitched wail to the symphony, Bear made a sound I'd never heard from him before—a desperate, terrified whine that went straight to my heart.
"It's okay, baby," I tried to soothe, kneeling to gather him against me, but the sirens kept coming. Another fire truck, another ambulance, the sounds layering into something that must have been torture for his sensitive puppy ears.
That's when he bolted.
