Ыоуве Been Warned   ::   Patterson James

Through the Plexiglas divider, I spot the cabbie – a stocky bald guy like that actor on The Shield – glaring at me in his rearview mirror. “You’re lucky I didn’t run you over,” he says. “I almost hit you.”

“Sorry about that,” I answer while glancing at the Ponytail. “Finding a taxi around here can be murder.”

The Ponytail grips my arm again, even tighter. Ow! He leans in, close to my ear. “Don’t get cute. There’s nothing funny about this, believe me.”

“Where you headed?” asks the cabbie. “I’m not a mind reader, y’know.”

“Just drive,” says the Ponytail. “Stay in the general area. But drive.”

The cabbie flips the meter on and shrugs as if to say, “Hey, it’s your dime.”

And off we go.

I look over at my backseat companion. I don’t want to show fear, but I shudder anyway. His narrow, sharp-featured face is menacing up close. I see a scar beneath the three-day stubble on his cheek. I suspect it’s the kind you don’t get by “accident.” Why is he following me? Is he a cop? Is this about what happened at the Fálcon?

The cabbie fiddles with the radio, turning the volume up on a jazz station.

As scared as I am, there’s a part of me almost emboldened by the idea that my fate is seemingly out of my hands. I’ve got my Bronx up. Or, I should say, my Brooklyn.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Your worst nightmare,” the Ponytail answers, his voice a deep baritone. No accent that I can decipher.

“That’s a very crowded category these days.”

“Serves you right,” he says. “You did this to yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been a bad girl, Kristin. You must know that. You deserve what you’re getting. And it’s going to get worse.”

Another shudder goes through me. “How do you know my name?”

“Trust me; I know a lot more about you than just your name. I know when you moved down here from Boston and why. I know where you live and where you work.”

The conversation flows like the jazz on the radio. Fast and choppy. Also random. Where’s the Ponytail going with this?

Right for my jugular, it turns out.

“Do you love those two kids?” he asks. “Those cute little kids?”

Sean and Dakota?

“What does this have to do with them?”

“Everything, I expect. Those kids are very important in all this.”

“Don’t you dare hurt them,” I snap at him, and raise a fist.

“No,” he says. “Don’t you dare hurt them.”

“Ha! You’re wrong, then,” I say.