Page 35 of Sexting the Pakhan

“I can’t breathe.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re talking. That means you’re breathing.”

She makes a broken, furious sound but keeps moving.

The reference desk is ahead. One of the librarians is crouched behind it, crying into a phone. Zoya turns toward her, and I pull her back before she can break away.

“No,” I say.

“She’s my coworker.”

“And the police are coming. Move.”

The gunman near periodicals steps into view. I shove Zoya behind the desk as he raises his gun. The shot goes over us and punches into the wall calendar. Paper and plaster scatter down over her hair.

She covers her mouth with both hands.

I grab a heavy metal bookend from the desk and throw it hard across the room. It hits a lamp near the computer station with a crash. The gunman turns toward the sound.

That gives us enough time.

I pull Zoya up and push her into the staff corridor.

She stumbles over a mat. I catch her under the arm and keep her upright. The corridor is narrow and ugly, lined with bulletin boards, stacked cartons, cleaning supplies, a broken printer no one has bothered to throw away. Behind us, footsteps hit the tile.

Zoya hears them. “Oh God,” she says.

“Don’t stop.”

“They’re coming.”

“I know.”

“How are you so calm?”

“Because I’ve done this before.”

She looks at me then, really looks, and I see that answer scare her more than the gunfire.

We reach the service door. I shove it open and push her into the alley first.

Cold air hits us. My eyes scan the surrounding and plan leverage. Wet concrete. Garbage bins. The back of a delivery truck parked halfway across the lane.

My driver is already pulling up at the mouth of the alley.

A shot cracks behind us. Brick bursts near my shoulder.

Zoya screams.

I turn and cover her with my body, one arm over her head, her face pressed into my shirt. She’s shaking badly now. I feel every bit of it.

My driver fires twice from the car. The sound bounces off the alley walls.

Zoya flinches both times but doesn’t collapse.