The lovely breakfast churned in her stomach.  The thought of making a video with anyone other than Flynn made her sick.  Exhaling, Izzy began to question the means to her end. How far would she go to find her sister?  And at what cost?

Chapter Sixteen

Izzy looked at her watch.  The bus was late. Instead of sitting on the bench inside the bus stop shelter, she paced back and forth along the sidewalk.  She was nervous about snooping in Boris’s office. If she got caught, she’d have a hard time explaining why she was in there. But she’d hit a dead end, and she needed to act. Now. Izzy had known the minute she walked into Surf’s Up that the club was a front.  For what, she didn’t know exactly, but she could guess.  What on earth had gotten into her sister’s head to go to work at such a place? The Alex she grew up with would never have set foot in a place like that. Did her parents know?  How could they not?

Izzy wasn’t psychic, but her gut told her there was a lot more to her sister’s disappearance than any of them thought.  Her gut also told her Alex was in deep trouble.

With Flynn out of the picture, Izzy’s only recourse was to go to Oakland PD and San Francisco PD.  Fill out a missing persons report, and tell them what she knew.  In the meantime, she’d do what she had been doing at the club.  Dig for answers.

Rolling her neck several times like a prizefighter getting ready for the title bout, Izzy mentally pumped herself up. She could do this.  It wasn’t like Boris was a permanent fixture in the place like Andre.  Boss man only showed up once a week, usually Saturday nights. She highly doubted he’d be there on a Monday. If he was, she decided she would ask him for a minute of his time.  He’d want something from her for the information.  Probably to show up to the private party Andre had told her about.  Izzy swallowed hard.  The thought of going to Boris’s private residence and dancing for his associates terrified her.

She felt like she was free-falling down the rabbit hole.  There was no one to catch her if it all went to hell.  Shaking off the fear that shook her resolve, Izzy focused on what she needed to survive right now.  Her tip money.

Glancing at her watch again, she grumbled.  It wasn’t like she had a schedule to keep, but she wanted to get to the club, get out of there while it was still early, then head to the San Francisco police department and, once back here, to the Oakland cops.

When her cell phone rang, she about jumped out of her skin.

It was Andre.  Swallowing hard she answered.  “Hello?”

“Hello, little girl.”  He sounded exactly like Gru from Despicable Me. Just meaner.

“Hi, Andre, what’s up?” she asked in the perkiest voice she could muster.

“I ask you same question.”

“Not much.” Beginning to pace along the curb in front of the shelter, eyes to the ground, Izzy held her breath, waiting for the shoe to drop.

“You bring me video now.”

“I—ah, about that, I don’t have it. My phone was stolen at the gym yesterday.”

“But you answer your phone.”

“Yeah, it’s a loaner. I just got it this morning. I put a reward up at the gym for my phone.  It’s locked, so no one can access it.”

“Did you make video?”

“Yes, I did.  I think Boris will be happy.” She bit her bottom lip.  “When do you expect he’ll be in next?”

“Boris tell me nothing. But now we both pay big price for no-show.”

“Andre,” Izzy implored, “I promise you, I’ll get my phone back.”

“Hope so, would not like to hurt little girl.”

“You would not hurt me!”

“Pain is good motivator.” He hung up.

She was still staring at her phone in disbelief when a white van came barreling around the corner at a high rate of speed. Izzy jumped back from the curb as it careened toward her. The van ran up on the curb and continued straight for her.  Screaming, she ran for her life toward the low concrete wall behind the bus stop enclosure.  The van sped by, but not before clipping the edge of the shelter.

It all happened so quickly she didn’t get a look at the driver.

In horror, she watched it come back around the other end of the street.  Was he coming at her again? Backing up, she heard the air brakes of the bus as it pulled up behind her to the stop.

The door opened and she jumped in.  The van sped past, turning left.

Shaken, she asked the driver.  “Did you see that?”

Bored, he looked at her. “See what?”

“That white van that just passed tried to run me over!”

His dark eyes grew alert, sweeping her from head to toe.  “You okay?”

“Yes, but—” She looked behind her to the sidewalk, where her purse and most of its contents lay strewn.  “I need to get my purse.  Please, wait just a minute.”

“Hurry, I’m behind schedule.”

She promptly exited the bus, scanning the road just in case, and picked up her purse and the contents that had spilled all over the sidewalk, including her brand new iPhone that thankfully hadn’t broken.

“You’re okay,” she said to herself, her shaky voice belying her words.

“You still want a ride?” the driver called.

Gathering her purse to her chest, she said, “Yes,” as she stepped back up into the bus.  As she looked to her right, then left, and behind the bus, the coast was clear.  Her instinct was to call Flynn, but he would think she was making an excuse to see him. And really, it could have just been a random act of assholeness.

Random acts weren’t unknown to her.  One day last year, she was leaving the professor’s office on campus and as she was crossing in the crosswalk, a motorcycle came out of nowhere and clipped her arm. He would have run her over if she hadn’t been grabbed and pulled to safety by the man walking behind her. Last month she had been followed from the club to BART. It had creeped her out.  Usually she was vigilant about keeping her eyes open and her head on a constant swivel.  Digging through her purse she found her kubaton key chain. The seven inches of pink metal resembled a thick spiraled icepick.  It was deadly in the right hands. Fisting it, she held it with a death grip.  She had taken several self-defense classes and kickboxing.  She knew how to use the kubaton. It was a menacing weapon, and she would not hesitate to jab it into a bad guy’s eyes, mouth, ear, heart, or wherever she could do some damage.

Sliding her Clipper card through the meter, Izzy moved to the empty back of the bus and sat down on the right-hand side. The bus lumbered away from the curb.  As they made the right turn onto Telegraph, she gasped.  The white van sat idling fifty yards ahead. This time she was ready to get the license plate number, but there wasn’t a plate. Didn’t matter. Quickly, she dialed 9-1-1. As they passed, she looked directly at the driver, who was disguised by a dark baseball cap and dark glasses.  Let him see she was on the phone and draw his own conclusions.  If he was still following her when she got to BART, then the cops could deal with him.

Halfway to BART, 9-1-1 was still ringing.  Damn budget cuts!  She looked behind her. The van was nowhere in sight. Sitting back into the hard plastic seat, she let out a long sigh and tapped the end icon.  No sense in calling it in; she had no description other than that it was a white van, and he was probably long gone by now.

As the bus pulled up to the BART station, Izzy hurried off and froze as she saw the van rumbling toward her, just as the bus she had exited drove past her.

She was torn.  Run after the bus that was heading straight for the van or make a run for the BART train.  Deciding that staying in a public place would increase her chances of survival, Izzy sprinted toward the turnstiles, swiped her card and hurried up to the platform, praying the train would be waiting.  It was.  She hurried in and moved forward through each car in search of a cop, all while keeping her eyes on the platform, and terrified the driver of the van would materialize before she found a cop.  When the driver didn’t show and the train began to move, she dropped to a seat and let out a shaky breath.  Where was a cop when you needed one?