href="#udb8572dc-facd-54d8-b268-2c65bd3499b9">Copyright
Kayla Brooks balanced one foot on the bike pedal and the other on the reddish path then waited for the traffic light to turn green. Getting around a city like Amsterdam, where there were more bikes than people, had initially felt like traversing a minefield. But after living here for two years, the choice to navigate the city like the locals was a no-brainer. Not only was it cheaper than public transportation, it was also faster.
A scooter zipped past her down the winding street as the light turned green. Ignoring her irritation, she started through the intersection—supposedly reserved for bicycles—and picked up her pace while mentally going through her to-do list. With the upcoming annual fund-raising luncheon only two weeks away, her list had grown substantially. Which meant she’d have to postpone running the bulk of her personal errands—like restocking her empty fridge—at least until the weekend.
The squeal of brakes jerked her out of her thoughts.
Kayla glanced behind her just in time to see a car swerve toward her. It slammed into her back tire, throwing her onto the hard pavement face-first. A sharp pain shot through her elbow as she started to untangle herself from her bike. The car flew past, its driver never looking back.
A shot of adrenaline raced through her as she glanced back at the string of bikes coming toward her. She needed to get off the path before she got run over. A man in a business suit riding a sturdy bike swerved out of the way, just barely avoiding hitting her. He shouted a few choice words as he flew past, chastising her both for being a tourist and for blocking the path.
So much for trying to blend in and look like a local.
Five seconds later, she managed to drag her bike out of the line of traffic to a strip of grass, barely avoiding another near collision with a woman riding with her toddler. She examined the damage—first on her body. Besides skinned-up palms and the lingering pain in her arm, nothing seemed broken. As for the bike she’d affectionately named Archie, the back fender was bent and the tire wouldn’t move.
Great. There was no way the damaged heap of metal was going to get her home.
She looked back down the street where the offending car had disappeared and let out a sharp huff of frustration. A couple people zoomed by on their bikes, apparently not having seen what had just happened. Her options were limited. She was going to have to lock up her bike, then walk the rest of the way home. She’d deal with the messed-up tire later.
Her phone buzzed as she snapped the padlock into place, securing her bike to a post. She glanced at the string of text messages.
do i have your attention now?
go home and wait for us to contact you again.
and don’t go to the police or there will be consequences.
Consequences?
A sick feeling spread through her. What kind of consequences?
Her stomach heaved. She stood on the side of the road, trying to interpret the messages. They had to be connected to her work. It was the only thing that made sense. She’d known when she accepted a position with International Freedom Operation that helping women who’d been trafficked get off the streets was risky. Three months ago, one of the girls they’d tried to rescue had been murdered, bringing with it a string of unwanted memories of her own. The girl’s death had been a frightening reminder of exactly whom they were dealing with on a day-to-day basis. And while threats weren’t uncommon, what did they—whoever they were—want from her?
Deciding to take a risk, she quickly punched in a number on her phone and then waited for her coworker to answer as she started walking.
“Evi? This is Kayla.”
“Kayla...where are you? You sound out of breath.”
“I’m walking home—”
“Walking? What happened to your bike?”
“It’s out of commission.” Kayla glanced behind her at the traffic zooming past her, trying not to give in to the panic. “Someone just hit me, and it wasn’t...it wasn’t an accident.”
“Wait a minute. A hit-and-run? Did you call the police—”
“No... I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I’m probably not supposed to be talking to you, but I don’t know what else to do. I also got a couple of text messages. I don’t know who they’re from, but they told me not to go to the police. I think it might be connected with one of the girls we’re working with.”
“Kayla, if that’s true, I don’t care what they told you. If someone’s threatening you, we need to get the authorities involved. Take the tram to the office, and we’ll meet you there as soon as we can.”
“I’m almost home,” Kayla said. “I think I’d rather be there, since it will be dark soon. Plus I need to check on my father and make sure he’s okay.”
She started walking faster. She’d be safe in her apartment, and it would give her a place to think. At least she thought she’d be safe. She tried to shake off the torrent of fearful thoughts.
I have no idea how to deal with this, God. The decision to work with IFO came with its own set of risks, but this—having my life threatened...
What was she supposed to do?
“Okay, listen,” Evi said. “Abel and I can try to catch the next train out of Maastricht, but it will still be several hours until we can get back to Amsterdam. In the meantime, go home and stay there until we get back and the three of us can figure out what to do. I don’t think the girls need to know what’s happening yet, but I’ll contact each of them and make sure they’re okay.”
Kayla hung up the call a minute later. They’d done everything they could to cover all the bases with the trafficked girls they were helping reintegrate into society and regain their independence as they healed emotionally. They’d also put into place a detailed emergency protocol. Until they knew what they were looking at, she couldn’t have any of the girls’ lives put at risk.
She glanced again at her phone. But what did these people want?
Another message came through with another photo.
I thought we were clear. Talk to no one. No police. No one at your work.
She clicked on the photo and saw a picture of herself sprawled on the bicycle path.
They were watching.
Ten minutes later, Kayla stepped into her apartment and slid the security bolt shut behind her. The panic that had started when the car had hit her only managed to grow as she double-checked the lock. She needed some kind of weapon. She glanced around the tiny entryway, then grabbed the broom before starting through the two-bedroom apartment to make sure no one was inside.
She flipped on the overhead light and felt her breath catch. Someone had been here. The files that had been on her desk now lay scattered across the floor, and her laptop was open to the password prompt. Thieves would have taken the computer. Whoever had broken in had been looking for something. But what?
“Dad? Dad, are you here?”
Her heartbeat quickened as she checked the room where her father, Max, had been staying the past few weeks. A pile of books that had been on his bedside table lay strewn across the floor next to his radio. Had he been out when someone had broken in, or had they walked in on him? She couldn’t tell, but one thing was clear—he wasn’t here now.
She tried to squelch the growing panic. Chances were he’d simply run down to the corner café for an early dinner. Or at least that’s what she hoped had happened. But it was going to be dark soon, and he never stayed out after dark...