Fault Line

Chapter 2

The car launches hard enough to slam me back into the seat, the engine spiking as the tyres catch a fraction too late before gripping, and then we’re moving—fast, straight, already ahead. Kian doesn’t fight for it; he takes it clean, controlled, pushing just enough to hold the line without wasting anything. The other two cars are there, but behind—I can hear them more than see them, engines climbing, one rougher than the other. It doesn’t matter. We’re ahead. I keep one hand braced against the dash, the other locked around the radio, holding the signal where it almost exists.

“…units—”

Gone, then back again.

“…responding—”

I switch channels, back to Olly. The radio crackles, stops, then crackles again as Kian shifts—smooth, no hesitation—and the car pulls harder, the space in front of us opening just enough to breathe.

“Olly,” I say once, getting nothing back. “Olly.”

Then—

“Indie—” Olly’s voice cuts through. “…five—maybe six units—coming in hot—”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. Kian heard it, and he doesn’t slow.

The turn comes up fast. He takes it tighter than he should, the back end slipping just enough to feel before it snaps back into line, and we come out of it still ahead. For a second it almost settles again—then headlights cut across the road, fast, wrong direction.

“s**t—”

The cop car tears straight across the race line, sirens not even fully on yet—just lights, too bright, too sudden. Kian jerks the wheel, the car swerving hard as the tyres scream and we miss it by inches, the back end kicking out wider this time, nearly gone.

He catches it. Barely.

We don’t stop. We don’t even slow properly. He cuts around the side of a building instead of following the line, shaving the corner and forcing it back onto the route like nothing just happened. One of the other cars hesitates. The other doesn’t.

We’re not ahead anymore.

“Faster, Kian,” I shout over the noise. He doesn’t respond.

We come back onto the stretch just behind them, close enough to take it—maybe, just—and for a second I think we might still win as the engine climbs again and the gap narrows. Then the road opens, the cars fly over the line, and it’s done. We cross second.

Kian doesn’t lift, not even after the line. The other car pulls ahead just enough to take it, but no one slows, no one stops, because no one’s that stupid.

“Olly,” I say, already scanning, already listening, “call them out.”

The yard is breaking apart around us—cars cutting across each other, people running, doors slamming, engines turning over too late. There’s no direction, just movement. Kian threads straight through it, not waiting for space, just taking it. A car cuts in front of us—too slow—and he swerves around it without dropping speed, missing it by nothing. Someone shouts, too far away to matter.

We hit the exit too fast. The car bounces as it scrapes the underside, then we’re out, the road narrowing immediately as trees close in on either side, dark and dense, headlights cutting a thin path through it. No lights out here. No cameras. Nothing but the road and whoever’s stupid enough to follow.

The radio crackles again. “Three past Wires,” Olly calls out.

“Left,” I say, already ahead of it. “Take it fast.”

The turn comes up sharp. Kian throws the car into it, the back end sliding out wide as tyres scream against wet asphalt, and for a second everything stretches—just enough to feel the angle, the edge of control—before it catches and we’re straight again, back onto streets, lights, buildings, movement.

“Right—two blocks—then cut—”

I’m talking and listening at the same time now, feeding Kian what I can pull from the noise Olly’s pushing through. It isn’t clean—nothing is. Calls overlap, timing off by half a second, just enough to matter.

“…one unit—north—”

“Straight.”

“…another—”

“Wait—”

Too late.

Headlights swing into view at the end of the street, close, already there.

“Shit.”

Kian doesn’t brake. He turns, hard.

The car swings wide, tyres losing grip completely before biting again, dragging us around the corner faster than we should be taking it, everything tilting for a second under too much speed, too much angle—then I see it.

Mounted high on the corner of the building. Small. Fixed.

Pointed straight at the turn. Tracking us.

Everything lines up too clean—the angle, the timing, the turn—and we’re right in it.

“f**k,” I say, quieter now, already knowing.

The radio snaps back to life in my hand.

“—Indie—camera—corner, you’re on it—”

I don’t reply. I don’t need to.

Kian doesn’t ask, doesn’t look. He just pushes harder.

Another turn. Then another. Back streets now, tighter, faster, cutting through gaps that barely exist as the sirens fall behind, surge, then fall again. We don’t lose them clean, but we lose them.

“Garage,” I say into the radio. “Open it.”

We take the last turn, tyres sliding just enough to feel before straightening as the garage comes into view, the shutter already dragging up in time. We’re inside before it finishes, the engine cutting as the door slams shut behind us.

Silence drops hard.

The radio hisses once in my hand as I sit there for a second longer than I should, knowing I hesitated—and knowing better.

Kian grins over at me, the car still ticking under us. “Think they got my good side?”

I let out a breath. “Yeah. Definitely.”

He laughs like the last five minutes were exactly what they were supposed to be.

The engine ticks as it cools, metal settling, heat bleeding out into the air, the smell hanging thick—burnt rubber, hot oil, something sharp underneath it—while outside the city keeps moving, distant and detached, like it’s got nothing to do with what just happened.

I should’ve called it sooner.

Kian pushes the door open and steps out like nothing’s wrong, stretching once, loose, rolling his shoulders like he just got out of a normal drive.

“You coming?” he says, glancing back.

I don’t answer straight away, but I get out anyway. We don’t take the cars—not after something like that. The air hits colder now, cutting through the leftover heat clinging to my skin, the noise of the race gone and replaced with something flatter: distant traffic, the low hum of the city resetting itself.

People are already moving down the street, same direction, still riding it.

“Did you see that turn?” someone says behind me. “Thought he was gonna lose it—”

“He nearly did.”

“Didn’t though.”

“Yeah, because he—”

They’re already arguing over it, replaying it like it changes anything. Kian’s in it, half listening, half talking, adding just enough to keep it going.

“Corner wasn’t that bad,” he says. “You just came in wrong.”

“Mate, you cut the whole line—”

“Yeah,” Kian says. “And?”

That gets a laugh. It always does. I don’t join in. We cut off the main street and into an alley—narrow, wet concrete, the kind of place that smells like old rain and something worse underneath it. Bins line the walls, a couple knocked sideways, light from a single overhead lamp flickering just enough to be irritating. There’s a line already. Half the city trying to get in like they weren’t just somewhere better five minutes ago. I don’t slow, just walk straight past them to the door. The bouncer looks at me once, then steps aside without asking.

“Busy night, Indie?”

“Something like that.”

Behind me, the others are already laughing, talking over each other as they follow me through. The door shuts behind us, cutting the outside clean off.

The stairs are tight, steep, covered in years of everything no one bothered to clean. Posters layered over posters, graffiti cutting through all of it, stickers peeling at the edges, names scratched into the railings.

The bass hits before we reach the bottom—waiting. We push through the door into the hallway, metal grates lining both sides floor to ceiling, movement behind them, light, bodies passing too close and too fast to focus on. People are pressed up against the walls—one couple halfway to something they should’ve taken somewhere else, someone shouting at them to get a room while they don’t stop, someone else crouched in the corner staring at nothing. No one reacts when we pass. The bass gets heavier. Louder. Closer. Then the space opens. It hits all at once—light, heat, bodies—everything layered, moving, too much and not enough at the same time. The air’s thick with sweat, alcohol, something chemical underneath it, music loud enough it stops being sound and turns into pressure, pushing through your chest, your ribs. We don’t stop. We push straight through it. Someone grabs Kian as we pass, shouting something in his ear. He laughs, shakes them off, keeps moving. Someone else tries to pull one of the others into the crowd—gets dragged for half a second before slipping free. We cut through the middle of it, straight toward the bar. Behind it, the stairs.

Another bouncer at the base looks up as we approach. “Indie.” That’s it. No move to stop us.

I go up. The others follow.

Upstairs is quieter—not silent, never silent—but the noise drops just enough to think. The crowd thins, space opening between tables, booths tucked into the edges, people watching instead of moving. We slide into ours without talking about it. Same one as always. I slide in before Kian. He’s last, half turned out, already leaning back with one arm thrown across the top of the booth behind me, loose, easy, not touching. He knows better. The others pile in around us, still talking, still riding it.

“Swear that cop came out of nowhere—”

“No, you just weren’t watching—”

“I was—”

Kian cuts in, laughing, arguing it like it matters. I let it wash over me.

Candice appears and drops onto his lap without asking. He doesn’t stop her. The table reacts immediately—noise spiking, someone making a comment, someone else taking it further. Kian plays into it just enough, one arm loose around her, not holding, not stopping her either. She leans back into him, talking close, smiling like she’s won something. He glances past her. Not subtle.

“Good call, Indie,” she says, the words sharp enough to cut.

My eyes narrow. It’s the only reaction I give her.

Kian shifts under her—small, deliberate—and she slips straight off his lap with a surprised sound, landing beside the table. Laughter breaks louder this time.

“Oops,” he says. Doesn’t reach for her.

She laughs it off, brushing it away like it didn’t hit, then moves off before it sticks. The noise fills back in around it like nothing happened, stories getting bigger, better, sharper every time they’re told. No one calls it.

Kian leans back again, still grinning, then glances at me and reaches out, fingers brushing the back of my shoulder—light, casual. I lean away.

The bass hits heavier up here, lower, more controlled, lights flickering across the balcony in slow pulses. I’m not listening anymore, not really, when someone steps out of the back hallway and the table shifts without stopping. One of Ivy’s guys. He doesn’t look at anyone else. Just walks straight to us, stopping short.

“She wants you.”

Kian exhales, tilting his head back. “Already? f**k, she just sat down.”

I look at him once, pointed. “Watch it.”

I slide out of the booth before anyone else can speak and follow the guy through the double doors, into the dark corridor, all the way to the end.

I lift my hand.

Knock once.