Mors

Chap 10

I moved away from the door with stiff, mechanical motions. The floor to ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, a glittering sea of lights that usually made me feel like I had made it. Now, the view felt predatory. Every skyscraper was a vantage point, and every street light was a watching eye. The central air hummed with a low, clinical buzz that set my nerves on edge. I looked around my living room, seeing it for what it truly was now. It was a gilded cage. Every expensive piece of minimalist furniture and every framed award from my career at the hotel was a neon sign pointing directly to who I was and where I could be found. I had forty eight hours to become a ghost. If I stayed, I was a puppet. If I ran, I was a target. At that moment, being a target felt infinitely more honest than being his secret weapon.

I realized with a jolt of panic that I didn't have a getaway fund. I lived a life of digital transactions and direct deposits. I didn't have a stack of bills hidden in a hollowed out book or a safe full of untraceable cash. I rushed to the kitchen, tearing through the junk drawer. I found a stray fifty dollar bill tucked into a take out menu. I ran to the hallway closet and checked the pockets of my winter coats, my fingers trembling as I fished out crumpled twenties and a handful of tens. I checked my purse, finding another hundred. It wasn't much, maybe three hundred dollars in total, but it was enough to get me out of the city. It was enough to buy a ticket to somewhere else.

Then I turned to my real wealth. I had always had a weakness for jewelry. It was my one true indulgence, the thing I spent my hard earned bonuses on. I loved the weight of gold and the cold, sharp fire of a well cut diamond. To me, jewelry wasn't just an accessory; it was wearable security. I walked into my bedroom and pulled out my velvet lined jewelry chest from the depths of my dresser. I poured the contents onto the bed. There was the vintage emerald ring I’d bought myself after my first big promotion, the diamond tennis bracelet that sparkled like a line of captured stars, and several heavy gold chains that felt substantial in my palm.

I didn't have time to admire them. I grabbed several soft microfiber cloths from the bathroom and began wrapping each piece individually to prevent them from clinking together. I tucked the small, soft bundles into the hidden compartments of my old grey nylon backpack. These pieces were my lifeline. In a new city, in a new life, I could sell them one by one. A single ring could keep me fed for months. The bracelet could buy me a used car and a deposit on a cheap studio. I felt a pang of grief as I wrapped the sapphire studs my father had given me before he died, but I pushed it down. Sentimentality was a luxury I couldn't afford if I wanted to stay alive.

I grabbed three changes of clothes, focusing on dark, nondescript fabrics. No logos. No bright colors. I needed to be a shadow in a crowd of millions. I also grabbed a small, framed photo of my mother from my dresser. I hesitated for a second, my thumb brushing over her smiling face, before sliding it between two t shirts. It was a dangerous link to my past, but I could not leave her behind in this glass tower.

Then, I looked at the black phone. It sat on the granite kitchen counter, sleek and predatory, watching me with its dark screen. It was a high tech shackle. The Don had said he would find me, and that device was his primary tool for keeping me on a leash. I knew I could not just throw it in the trash outside. He would see it move. He would see it leave the building. I needed to make him believe I was still here, tucked away in my grief and fear, until I had a significant head start. I walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a portable power bank. I plugged the phone into it and tucked both items deep into the crevice of my heavy velvet sofa. To anyone tracking the GPS, it would look like I was just sitting in my living room, motionless and defeated.

I checked the time. It had been three hours since the guards dropped me off. I knew they were still down there. In a posh area like this, a black SUV could sit at the curb for hours without drawing too much suspicion from the neighbors, though the concierge might eventually ask questions. I could not leave through the main lobby. The concierge, a polite man named Marcus, knew my face and my schedule. He would greet me, and his greeting would be recorded on the high definition security cameras that lined the marble entrance. My building was a fortress of security, which was usually a selling point, but now it was a trap.

I changed into a heavy black hoodie and pulled a dark beanie low over my forehead. I looked in the mirror one last time. The girl staring back was pale, her forest green eyes wide with a frantic, desperate energy. I looked like a cornered animal wearing expensive skin. I forced myself to take a deep, shaky breath. I had to be calm. If I looked like I was running, the security staff would notice. If I walked like I belonged in the shadows, I might just survive the night.

I hoisted the backpack onto my shoulders. The weight was a physical reminder that I was moving, and the subtle shift of the jewelry inside felt like the heartbeat of my new life. I slipped out of my apartment, locking the triple deadbolt behind me with a quiet click. I didn't look back. I knew that if I did, I would see the life I was murdering.

I avoided the main elevators. They were lined with mirrors and cameras, and they required a keycard that logged every floor request. Instead, I headed for the service stairs. I moved as softly as a cat, my sneakers barely making a sound on the concrete steps. Every floor I passed felt like a mile. Thirty two, thirty one, thirty. My ears were straining for the sound of heavy footsteps or the ding of an elevator. I reached the basement level where the private parking garage was located.

The garage was a cavernous space filled with luxury cars, bathed in the eerie glow of blue tinted LED lights. It was a playground for the rich, and tonight it was my escape route. I navigated through the rows of Porsches and Mercedes, staying in the blind spots of the overhead cameras as best as I could. I knew there was a loading dock near the back where the trash compactors and delivery trucks operated. It was the only exit that didn't require passing a human guard.

I reached the heavy steel service door and paused. This was the moment of no return. I pressed my ear against the cold metal. I heard the distant hum of the city and the steady patter of rain against the pavement. I gripped the handle and turned it slowly. I squeezed through the narrow opening and stepped into the damp, cold air of the service alley.

The rain hit my face, shocking my senses. It was a torrential downpour, the kind that blurred the world into a grey, hazy mess. In this moment, the weather was my greatest ally. I moved quickly through the shadows, staying close to the wet brick walls of the adjacent buildings. I reached the end of the alley and peeked around the corner. Two blocks away, I could see the silhouette of the black SUV parked under a streetlamp near my building’s main entrance. The headlights were off, but I knew they were inside, watching the glass doors I would never walk through again. I turned in the opposite direction and started to walk.

I walked for nearly twenty blocks before I dared to look for a taxi. I flagged down a battered yellow cab, one that looked like it had seen better decades. I didn't give him my real destination. I told him to drop me at a crowded shopping mall on the other side of town. From there, I blended into the crowd of late night shoppers and moviegoers. I walked through and finally found my way to a dingy transit hub where the long distance buses pulled in and out. This wasn't the main station where the tourists went. This was a secondary stop, the kind used by people who needed to disappear without a trace.

I walked up to the ticket window. My heart was doing a frantic dance in my throat, threatening to choke me. The man behind the glass was older, his skin like wrinkled parchment and his eyes glazed over with years of boredom. He didn't even look up when I approached.

"One ticket," I said. My voice was steadier than I expected. "As far west as this line goes."

"That would be Oakhaven," he mumbled, his fingers tapping lazily at a keyboard that looked older than I was. "Forty two dollars. Bus leaves in ten minutes. Bay four."

I pulled the crumpled bills from my pocket and slid them through the slot. He handed me a thin slip of thermal paper. I took it and retreated to the darkest corner of the waiting area.

Oakhaven. I had never heard of the place. That was perfect. If I hadn't heard of it, maybe the Don hadn't either. It was a small town, a blip on the map where a girl with forest green eyes could fade into the background and wait for the world to stop hunting her.

As I sat there, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a cold, hollow dread. I thought about the man in the chair. I thought about the way the gun felt in my hand, the weight of it, the finality of it. I thought about the Don’s warning. I thought about how he said I wouldn't like the version of him that came looking for me.

I looked at my hands again. In the harsh fluorescent light of the bus station, they looked clean and pale. But I knew better. I was carrying a darkness with me that no amount of miles could outrun. I was a murderer on a bus to nowhere.

The bus pulled into the bay with a loud hiss of air brakes. It was an old, battered vehicle, its white paint peeling to reveal rusted metal underneath. It was a far cry from the luxury SUV that had delivered me to my high rise earlier that day. I boarded and found a seat in the very back corner, pressing my forehead against the cold, vibrating glass.

As the engine roared to life and the bus began to pull away from the curb, I felt a strange sensation. It wasn't relief. It was the feeling of a thread being stretched to its absolute limit. I was still connected to him. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, a cold anchor that refused to let go.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but all I could see was his face. The Don, sitting in his leather chair, watching the clock tick down my forty eight hours. He would know eventually. He would realize the phone hadn't moved from that velvet sofa. He would realize his guards were watching an empty penthouse. And when he did, the hunt would truly begin.

~•~