Lisa Harris - Deadly Exchange

A shot of adrenaline raced through her as she glanced back at the string of bikes coming toward her. She needed to get off the path before she got run over. A man in a business suit riding a sturdy bike swerved out of the way, just barely avoiding hitting her. He shouted a few choice words as he flew past, chastising her both for being a tourist and for blocking the path.

So much for trying to blend in and look like a local.

Five seconds later, she managed to drag her bike out of the line of traffic to a strip of grass, barely avoiding another near collision with a woman riding with her toddler. She examined the damage—first on her body. Besides skinned-up palms and the lingering pain in her arm, nothing seemed broken. As for the bike she’d affectionately named Archie, the back fender was bent and the tire wouldn’t move.

Great. There was no way the damaged heap of metal was going to get her home.

She looked back down the street where the offending car had disappeared and let out a sharp huff of frustration. A couple people zoomed by on their bikes, apparently not having seen what had just happened. Her options were limited. She was going to have to lock up her bike, then walk the rest of the way home. She’d deal with the messed-up tire later.

Her phone buzzed as she snapped the padlock into place, securing her bike to a post. She glanced at the string of text messages.

do i have your attention now?

go home and wait for us to contact you again.

and don’t go to the police or there will be consequences.

Consequences?

A sick feeling spread through her. What kind of consequences?

Her stomach heaved. She stood on the side of the road, trying to interpret the messages. They had to be connected to her work. It was the only thing that made sense. She’d known when she accepted a position with International Freedom Operation that helping women who’d been trafficked get off the streets was risky. Three months ago, one of the girls they’d tried to rescue had been murdered, bringing with it a string of unwanted memories of her own. The girl’s death had been a frightening reminder of exactly whom they were dealing with on a day-to-day basis. And while threats weren’t uncommon, what did they—whoever they were—want from her?

Deciding to take a risk, she quickly punched in a number on her phone and then waited for her coworker to answer as she started walking.

“Evi? This is Kayla.”

“Kayla...where are you? You sound out of breath.”

“I’m walking home—”

“Walking? What happened to your bike?”

“It’s out of commission.” Kayla glanced behind her at the traffic zooming past her, trying not to give in to the panic. “Someone just hit me, and it wasn’t...it wasn’t an accident.”

“Wait a minute. A hit-and-run? Did you call the police—”

“No... I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I’m probably not supposed to be talking to you, but I don’t know what else to do. I also got a couple of text messages. I don’t know who they’re from, but they told me not to go to the police. I think it might be connected with one of the girls we’re working with.”

“Kayla, if that’s true, I don’t care what they told you. If someone’s threatening you, we need to get the authorities involved. Take the tram to the office, and we’ll meet you there as soon as we can.”

“I’m almost home,” Kayla said. “I think I’d rather be there, since it will be dark soon. Plus I need to check on my father and make sure he’s okay.”

She started walking faster. She’d be safe in her apartment, and it would give her a place to think. At least she thought she’d be safe. She tried to shake off the torrent of fearful thoughts.

I have no idea how to deal with this, God. The decision to work with IFO came with its own set of risks, but this—having my life threatened...

What was she supposed to do?

“Okay, listen,” Evi said. “Abel and I can try to catch the next train out of Maastricht, but it will still be several hours until we can get back to Amsterdam. In the meantime, go home and stay there until we get back and the three of us can figure out what to do. I don’t think the girls need to know what’s happening yet, but I’ll contact each of them and make sure they’re okay.”

Kayla hung up the call a minute later. They’d done everything they could to cover all the bases with the trafficked girls they were helping reintegrate into society and regain their independence as they healed emotionally. They’d also put into place a detailed emergency protocol. Until they knew what they were looking at, she couldn’t have any of the girls’ lives put at risk.

She glanced again at her phone. But what did these people want?

Another message came through with another photo.

I thought we were clear. Talk to no one. No police. No one at your work.

She clicked on the photo and saw a picture of herself sprawled on the bicycle path.

They were watching.

Ten minutes later, Kayla stepped into her apartment and slid the security bolt shut behind her. The panic that had started when the car had hit her only managed to grow as she double-checked the lock. She needed some kind of weapon. She glanced around the tiny entryway, then grabbed the broom before starting through the two-bedroom apartment to make sure no one was inside.

She flipped on the overhead light and felt her breath catch. Someone had been here. The files that had been on her desk now lay scattered across the floor, and her laptop was open to the password prompt. Thieves would have taken the computer. Whoever had broken in had been looking for something. But what?

“Dad? Dad, are you here?”

Her heartbeat quickened as she checked the room where her father, Max, had been staying the past few weeks. A pile of books that had been on his bedside table lay strewn across the floor next to his radio. Had he been out when someone had broken in, or had they walked in on him? She couldn’t tell, but one thing was clear—he wasn’t here now.

She tried to squelch the growing panic. Chances were he’d simply run down to the corner café for an early dinner. Or at least that’s what she hoped had happened. But it was going to be dark soon, and he never stayed out after dark...

She grabbed her phone out of her back pocket and dialed his number.

No answer.

She hung up the call, trying to convince herself that everything was still somehow okay. That her father not answering didn’t mean something had happened to him. How many times over the past few weeks had she reminded him to keep his phone on so she could contact him if she needed him? For all she knew, he’d left the phone somewhere here in the house.

Still, worry began to spread. She’d invited her father to stay with her for a couple months, praying that a change of pace would help with the pain of losing her mom eight months ago to acute kidney failure. With the loss had come the familiar signs of depression he’d experienced before, but so far, she wasn’t sure the change of pace was helping. Until recently, he’d rarely left the apartment, spending most of his time in the small room she’d fixed up for him, listening to the news on his radio or reading.

Something creaked above her. She glanced up. It was probably just her neighbors upstairs. She quickly finished checking her bedroom and her bathroom, then peeked out onto the small balcony that was just big enough to store her bike and found the intruder’s point of entry. Someone had wedged open the balcony window. But whoever had broken in was gone.

Her phone rang, bringing on another flood of adrenaline. She set down the broom, then glanced at the caller ID, disappointed when it wasn’t her father. Surely they couldn’t monitor her movements from inside her own apartment.