The Heights (The Hunted of Harrison City #2)

Chapter One

As I look back, I understand my grandmother always knew I’d live a hard life. She poured her lessons into me until I overflowed with proverbs and quotes. Even in the most trying times, her voice is a whisper in the back of mind; messages I hear whether I want to or not. Today is no different.

Don’t let a bad day make you believe you have a bad life.

Such a simple idea. Don’t succumb to the moment of pain. Look at the bigger picture. Survive and see the good in tomorrow.

Is today a bad day? Yes. Oh God, yes. From the moment the Vale Community College professor showed up with fake-graded assignments, intending to shred all chances of my transfer to Harrison University, it had been the worst kind of day.

Accusing me of failing my classes, then flipping the script and mourning the loss of VCC’s ‘most valuable student,’ he tried everything to derail my dreams. Everything except offer to provide the online classes I asked for.

That’s all it would have taken to keep me onside; a couple of online classes while I’m holed up at the Trevainne compound and on the run from the head of Diverprop and the Vale’s corrupt underbelly—Barry Franz.

If that wasn’t bad enough, then the damn professor goes one step further—he tries to kidnap me and hand me over to the scum-fuckers in question.

So, a bad day? THE WORST, as was the one before that and the one before that.

Beatings from a father who was never mine.

Getting caught up in dirty dealings with men leagues above and below my own.

Suspected of knowing secrets that I really don’t know.

Hunted.

Sold.

Lied to.

Abandoned.

Yeah, a bad day might not equate to a bad life, but what if all your yesterdays were bad days? What if all your tomorrows are too? What then?

*

I slam through the cafe door and onto the street.

Cas and the car are gone. There’s something really wrong with that, but my concern is getting the hell away from Franz and his men.

I don’t even look back to see if Ben is hot on my tail or if he’s still fronting off against Professor Trainor inside.

He’ll either catch up with me or he’ll save himself.

Either way, he’s not my current priority.

I don’t bother turning left or right. The cafe is equipped with a back alleyway exit, which undoubtedly connects to a main street.

Franz’s men could cut me off if I turn the wrong way.

Instead, I dash across the road towards the stores that are drawing the most people.

The lunch crowds will soon flood the district, but right now there’s only a smattering of people wandering the streets, heading for their favourite eateries.

There’s enough to give me the cover I need to escape, but not enough to vanish completely into a crowd.

I zip in and out, getting close to people only to dart around them. I jog in bursts and then fall into pace with strangers so I can check over my shoulder for my pursuers.

Jesus, I have pursuers. Why is my life such a perpetual shitshow?

I spot a big guy four or five stores behind me. He hasn’t seen me yet, but he’s too damn close. I don’t want to draw attention to myself by running, but I need to increase my speed and get out of his line of sight.

Boutiques, stationers, antique stores, bistros—all glass walls and fancy signage.

The people inside might be dressed in casual wear—hobo-chic and dressing like the people they’d normally step on, with their faded jeans and torn t-shirts—but it is all just as designed as the crap they’re selling.

These middle-class Bougie places offer no haven.

The Darlington Gallery, on the other hand, looms at the crossroads ahead.

I waste a split-second of uncertainty, wondering if I should just keep running, and then slip across the road and sweep inside.

A severe security guard glares in my direction until I slam some coins in the donations box and walk upstairs.

A sense of ease smothers some of my fear, giving me a second to think.

I know this place from the Intellectual Property Protection module we completed last year.

I spent hours here completing a copyright law project on public and private art.

The ambient scent of wood polish and carnations infuses the wide, double-height spaces.

The familiarity of the scent and the clean white walls bring a sense of calm.

Peace in the eye of the storm. It gives me the confidence to snatch a handful of sharp breaths and find my bearings.

I have a flash of a memory when I reach the corridor in front of the Sylestaine rooms. A younger Dax, freshly suited and suave, trying his best to avoid schmoozing the bigwigs.

He was both a stranger and a familiar face back then.

I wonder if he knows we’ve met before? We only chatted for a minute or two, and he’d have no reason to remember that shy girl with the battered books staring at the art, but I’ve always remembered.

With how clear my memories remained, it’d be hard to forget.

Still, lingering in the past is never good for the present, which is why, as comforting as that fleeting memory feels, I need to move.

I have no idea where the compound is in relation to where I am.

If I could get to a train station, I might be able to take a train as far as the line will go, but Harrison Heights is still miles from the nearest station.

Perhaps I could arrange a pickup? As long as Aiden comes or sends somebody I recognise, it should be fine.

I have my student pass in my bag, and a train is a quick escape, which makes a logical sort of sense.

Still, chances are, Franz will soon have people at the station, and I could be walking straight into trouble. Fuck. What to do?

I do have one haven and, though it might be compromised, it’s the only place I can think of.

I drift past the exhibits, their bright colours and intricate designs vying to catch my eye, as I beeline for the glass viewing deck on the second floor connecting the main Darlington building to the newer visitors’ centre.

The deck is a bridge of sorts that traverses between the two buildings.

It has elaborate glass floors and walls with a view down over Drummond Street—the furthest exit in the gallery from Deja Brew.

I glance up and down for the telltale suits of Franz’s men.

Except there are dozens of men and women in smart suits.

They could be Franz’s men or Aiden’s. I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

The only positive is that, for once, I’m dressed similarly in my blazer, dress, and heeled boots.

I roll my hair up into a tight bun and cinch it with the spare elastic that I always carry in my bag.

I need to get out of the Arts District, and that means fronting as just another suit. I watch them, their heads held high and their strides unhurried, as if they have all the time in the world. Most of them commute from Harrison Central and the city zones.

It’s considered fashionable to eat in the Arts District. Important people want to be seen here. Two-hour lunches and meetings à la mode are the ‘in’ thing. I shouldn’t be surprised that they arranged my meeting out here. It might be neutral territory, but it’s a fashionable first impression too.

Whatever. I need to focus.

I just have to do my best, blend in, and not let my anxiety overwhelm me.

With that decision made, I take the next set of stairs down to the ground level and exit onto Drummond Street.

My feet carry me further south, hoping I still have a head start despite taking that minute to think.

Keeping my pace casual is an exercise in madness when everything inside is screaming for me to run, but I need to blend in if I’m to remain unnoticed.

I pull my phone from my dress and scroll to messages.

I can’t risk a conversation being overheard, but I can send a text, and using the phone offers another layer of disguise; these days it is more unusual not to walk around absorbed in your screen, though I wonder how people do it and walk in a straight line.

My fingers itch to stop and send the message as quickly as possible.

Everything takes so much longer with your focus split in all directions.

Ambushed. Cas gone.

We have men on the way. Are you okay?

Yes, but won’t know safe suits from danger suits.

Understood. Go to safety. Be prepared to clean if you think you’ll be caught.

Clean? Oh! The Clean app. That makes sense.

Understood.

We’re with you all the way.

Aiden probably means the tracker. Dax said it would work even after running the Clean app.

So, if Franz takes me, Dax and Aiden should still be able to follow.

A small sense of relief flashes through me at the reminder, but I’d still rather not risk it.

I can keep myself safe. I just need a place to lie low.

Continuing along Drummond until it crosses Market Street, I take a sharp right.

My finger hovers over the Clean app icon.

My head tilts toward my phone screen, but I watch my feet and the pavement.

Until I realise all the other pairs of feet passing me are going the other way.

Why didn’t I think of that? I’m the only fool heading south toward the Vale.

I stop dead in the middle of the pavement.

People are staring at me as they walk around me, like a fish swimming against the shoal.

I spin around, glancing up and down to see how conspicuous I am.

My breath freezes in my throat. Three men run towards me, shoving pedestrians out of the way and, despite my concerns, I can tell they’re not Aiden’s impeccably dressed guys.

“Hey!” one yells the second I make eye contact with him.

I glance down at the screen. My finger poised to press the Clean icon. It’ll wipe everything. The texts between Dax and me. All the moments that tie us together in the best ways. The things we struggle to say to each other’s faces…

I don’t want to do this. I’ve lost everything else. Not this too.

They’ve not got me yet. I’m not done until their hands are around my throat.

I bolt.

Across the road.

Down a loading alley for the grocery store.

Around onto the main road and through the park.

In a hopping shuffle, I lose the heels. Folding the boots under my arm, I dare the rest of the journey on bare feet. The sharp sting of concrete against my exposed soles is a reminder that I am my own lifeline.

When I can no longer see or hear the guys chasing me, I turn left and run the backstreet warrens, too afraid to step out onto the main road in case Franz’s men are driving around on the lookout.

I keep a wary eye on the street signs and navigate toward the bridge that connects The Arts to The Vale and saves me going the long way around.

Wrapping the tailored jacket tighter around me, I shove my bag under my armpit with my boots to stop it bouncing against my back. The bridge is a vast open stretch of road and one I can’t avoid taking, but it leaves me vulnerable with nowhere to run unless I fancy a desperate dip in the Esk River.

I would rather swim than let Franz take me, so it’s a definite possibility.

Stepping onto the bridge is a lesson in exposure. I can’t hide from Franz’s guys or from the cold. Although we’re just out of August, the winds are a biting indicator that we’re going to skip autumn for an early winter this year. We’ve all felt the chill since July.

My body exposes all its weaknesses, too.

Burning chest. Leaden legs. Aching and stinging feet.

Debris lodges and buries itself in the soft flesh of my soles, but I don’t dare to stop and scrub the stones away.

I just pull my bag even closer to my chest and tuck my head low to avoid looking at any passing cars.

The closer I get to the end of the bridge, the faster I walk until I diverge off the main street and onto a sideroad.

Being in the Vale is a contradiction. I’m safer knowing these streets, but more at risk surrounded by people as abhorrent as Franz. They’re his demographic, after all. His clients. His workers. His prey.

But I was born here. I should be more at home here than at the compound.

I’m one of them, after all.

*

It takes fifteen minutes of sneaking down back roads and drifting through alleyways before I slide into the bakery via the back entrance.

Charlie squeals loudly, half in shock and half in excitement, then spins to the internal shop door and raises her hands to prepare for Koko. He barrels into the kitchen clutching a vicious cleaver, probably making dark threats in Samoan, if the murderous intent in his eyes is to be believed.

I’m too out of breath to speak, and whatever they see on my face has them both rallying to help me without question.

“Sit!” Charlie barks, pulling up a stool.

Koko sloshes a glass of water down on the counter in front of me and grumbles, “Sip.”

I follow their instructions and slowly calm down enough to speak. They wait patiently; genuine concern engraved in their nose wrinkles and pitying gazes.

“Sor-ry.” The word hitches with my jagged breaths. “I didn’t mean…to bring…trouble to you. Just didn’t know…where else to go.”

“You’re always welcome here, and we’ve got Koko to deal with any trouble,” Charlie reassures.

The big guy grumbles. The rumbling threat is self-evident even without the fire in his eyes.

“Koko wants to know who he has to kill,” Charlie translates.

“I’m so tempted to give him names right now.”

Both their expressions harden. But it’s Charlie who asks, “What’s going on, Jules?”

I stare at my only friends and wonder if it is safer for them to remain ignorant or if they’ll be better prepared by knowing everything?

In the end, my selfishness wins out. I need advice, support and, more than anything else, commiseration.

I want someone I care about to know where to find me if I vanish.

Fuck. Is this what my life is now? An hour ago, I was excited to graduate and build a future. Now, I’m preparing to disappear off the face of the earth at the hands of Franz and Hanson.

“I think you’d better sit down.”