Chapter 54 Alone and Hunted

Chapter 54 Alone and Hunted
(Lily POV)
The diner's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I refilled coffee for the third time in ten minutes. My swollen feet ached in the cheap sneakers I'd bought at a thrift store. My back screamed with every movement. At seven months pregnant, I shouldn't be doing this kind of work. But I didn't have a choice.
"More coffee, Emma?" The regular at table four, a kind elderly man who always tipped well held up his cup.
Emma. That was my name now. Emma Clarke. Not Lily Morrison. Not the woman plastered all over the news five months ago as Tony Stark's mistress and gold-digging liar.
"Coming right up, Mr. Peterson." I forced a smile and waddled over with the pot.
The baby kicked hard against my ribs, making me wince. I placed a hand on my enormous belly, feeling the solid lump of a foot or elbow pressing out.
"You okay, honey?" Mr. Peterson asked with concern.
"Fine. Just an active baby." I poured his coffee with a shaking hand.
"When are you due?"
"Six weeks." The lie came easily now. I was actually due in four weeks, but I couldn't risk anyone knowing the real timeline. Couldn't risk anyone doing the math and connecting me to the Morrison case.
The truth was, I'd been living under the radar for five months. Five months since I'd climbed out that safe house window and disappeared into the night. Five months of sleeping in my car, then in shelters, then finally in a tiny room at St. Catherine's Women's Home run by Sister Mary.
Five months of wondering if I'd made the right choice.
My phone, a cheap prepaid burner was tucked in my apron pocket. I'd bought it three months ago, telling myself it was for emergencies only. But late at night, when I couldn't sleep, I'd pull up news articles about Tony.
Stark Industries had recovered from the scandal. Tony had given a press conference, calmly explaining that he'd helped a victim of domestic violence and had no romantic involvement with her. The media had eventually moved on to other scandals.
But I knew the truth. I'd seen the strain on his face during that press conference. I'd seen the barely concealed pain when reporters asked if he'd been in contact with me.
I'd hurt him by leaving. But I'd saved him too. Sarah's email haunted me still. The one that had made me run.
"I know where you are. I know about the baby. If you stay near Tony, I'll kill him. Then I'll kill you. Then I'll cut that baby out of you while you're still alive. Leave, or everyone you love dies."
I'd left. Because I couldn't risk Tony's life. Couldn't risk anyone else getting hurt because of me.
"Order up!" Joe, the cook, rang the bell.
I grabbed the plates, chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes and carried them to table seven. The weight of the plates combined with my pregnancy made me unsteady. I felt a sharp pain in my lower back.
Not now. Please not now.
I'd been having Braxton Hicks contractions for weeks, false labor that left me panicked and scared. Dr. Ramirez at the free clinic said they were normal, but every time they hit, I wondered if this was it. If the baby was coming.
And I was terrified.
Because I still didn't know what I was going to do. Keep the baby? Give it up for adoption? I'd filled out paperwork with an adoption agency, met with two potential families. Both were perfect, loving, stable, financially secure.
But every time I imagined handing over this baby, my heart broke.
"Emma, you okay?" Rita, the other waitress, touched my arm. "You look pale."
"I'm fine." Another lie. I wasn't fine. I hadn't been fine in a very long time.
The door chimed as new customers entered. I glanced over automatically and froze.
Two men in dark suits. One with a scar across his cheek. The other built like a linebacker.
They weren't here for the food.
My heart hammered as they sat in my section, their eyes scanning the diner. Scanning for someone.
Scanning for me.
I turned away, trying to stay calm. Maybe they weren't here for me. Maybe I was paranoid. Maybe—
"Excuse me, miss." The scarred man's voice was heavily accented. Russian, maybe. "We are looking for someone. A woman. Pregnant. Maybe she works here?"
Rita looked at me, then back at them. "Lots of pregnant women in the world, sir. Anyone specific?"
"This woman.." he pulled out a photo. My hospital photo from five months ago. "..she may look different now. Different hair, maybe. But the face is the same."
I was already moving. I dropped the coffee pot with a crash and bolted toward the kitchen.
"Hey!" The linebacker lunged after me.
I shoved through the kitchen doors, past a startled Joe, and out the back exit into the alley. My pregnant body wasn't built for running, but adrenaline pushed me forward.
Behind me, I heard the door crash open. Heavy footsteps pounding.
"Stop! We just want to talk!"
Like hell they did.
I ran down the alley, my hand on my belly, praying the baby would be okay. Pain shot through my back with each jarring step. I turned the corner onto Main Street, weaving through pedestrians.
A hand grabbed my arm. I screamed.
"Got you," the linebacker said, his grip bruising.
People stopped and stared, but no one intervened. They probably thought it was a domestic dispute. Something private. Something not their business.
"Let me go!" I tried to wrench free, but he was too strong.
The scarred man caught up, barely winded. "Stop fighting. Viktor wants to talk."
Viktor. Sarah's contact. The man she'd hired to kill me.
"Please," I begged. "Please, I'm pregnant. Don't hurt my baby."
"We have orders for the baby." The scarred man smiled, and it was the cruelest thing I'd ever seen. "Sarah was very specific."
They dragged me toward a black van parked at the curb. I fought, screamed, kicked, but pregnant and exhausted, I was no match for them.
"Police! Someone call the police!" I screamed.
"Shut up." The linebacker slapped me hard across the face. My vision blurred with stars of pain.
They were about to shove me into the van when a sharp, tearing sensation ripped through my abdomen. I gasped, doubling over.
Water gushed down my legs, soaking my jeans and sneakers.
No. No, no, no.
"My water," I whispered. "My water just broke."
The two men looked at each other.
"Viktor didn't say anything about this," the scarred man said.
"Call him."
Another contraction hit, stronger than anything I'd felt before. Real labor. This was real labor. The baby was coming, four weeks early, in an alley, while two criminals held me hostage.
"Please," I sobbed. "Please, I need a hospital. The baby's coming."
The scarred man pulled out his phone, speaking rapid Russian. Then he hung up and looked at me with those cold, dead eyes.
"Viktor says to bring you anyway. The baby can come to the warehouse."
"No!" I tried to fight again, but another contraction stole my breath. The pain was incredible, all-consuming.
They dragged me into the van. My mind raced, searching for options, for escape routes. But there were none. I was trapped.
As the van pulled away from the curb, I felt in my apron pocket. My phone. They hadn't searched me. They hadn't taken it.
While the scarred man drove and the linebacker watched me from the passenger seat, I slowly, carefully pulled out my phone. My hands shook as I unlocked it.
I had one chance. One call.
I'd saved Tony's number five months ago, telling myself I'd never use it. Telling myself it was better to disappear completely.
But I was out of options. Out of time.
Another contraction hit. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood.
The baby was coming fast. Too fast.
With trembling fingers, I pulled up Tony's contact and pressed call. Then I shoved the phone deep into my apron pocket, praying he'd answer. Praying the open line would be enough for him to hear, to understand, to find me.
"You're quiet now," the linebacker said, glancing back at me. "Good. Less trouble."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. In my pocket, I heard the faint sound of ringing.
Then Tony's voice, distant and tinny: "Hello? Hello, who is this?"
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream his name. But I couldn't risk them knowing about the phone.
"Where are we taking her?" the linebacker asked.
"The warehouse on Port Street," the scarred man replied. "Viktor's waiting. He says we do it there and make it look like she died in childbirth. Tragic accident. No one questions a pregnant woman dying during labor."
"And the baby?"
"Depends. If it lives, we give it to Sarah. She wants it. Says she'll raise it as her own, along with her baby. If it dies..." He shrugged. "One less problem."
In my pocket, I hoped Tony was hearing this. Hoped he understood.
Port Street warehouse. Viktor. Sarah.
Another contraction hit, stronger than before. I couldn't hold back the moan of pain this time.
"How long until we get there?" the linebacker asked nervously. "I don't know anything about delivering babies."
"Ten minutes. Viktor has a doctor. Some guy he uses for illegal stuff. He'll handle it."
Ten minutes. I had ten minutes before they took my phone, before they killed me, before they either murdered my baby or gave it to Sarah.
Ten minutes for Tony to somehow track this call and find me.
I closed my eyes, one hand on my belly, feeling the baby moving frantically. Fighting to be born.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to my child. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you."
The van turned onto a dark street. Through the window, I saw abandoned warehouses, broken streetlights, no people.
No witnesses.
We pulled up to a large building with rusted metal siding. The door rolled open and we drove inside into darkness.
The scarred man killed the engine. "We're here."
He opened the back door, and rough hands grabbed me, pulling me out. My legs buckled. I couldn't stand through the contractions anymore.
They dragged me across the concrete floor toward a light in the back corner. I saw a table, no, a gurney. Medical equipment that looked ancient and dirty.
And standing beside it, a man in a filthy white coat.
"This is the doctor?" the linebacker asked skeptically.
"This is what we have." The scarred man looked at his phone. "Viktor says he's on his way. Wants to watch."
Another contraction. Stronger. Closer. The baby was coming whether I was ready or not.
They lifted me onto the gurney. The "doctor" approached with a syringe.
"What is that?" I gasped.
"Something for pain," he said in broken English. "Make you sleep."
"No." I tried to fight, but the linebacker held me down while the doctor injected something into my arm.
Warmth spread through my veins. My vision blurred. I felt myself slipping away even as another contraction tore through me.
In my apron pocket, my phone was still connected to Tony.
My last thought before darkness took me was a prayer.
Please find me.
Please save my baby.
Please—