Darling Harbour
The W Hotel Sydney rose like a shimmering sculpture against the dusk-lit skyline. Sleek, curving lines of glass and steel wrapped around the building, reflecting the golden light off Darling Harbour. Inside, it was all marble, neon accents, and modern opulence—designed for the influencer elite, but perfect for a spy on the run. Judd stepped out into the warm Sydney evening, the scent of salt and seafood in the air. Boats bobbed lazily at their moorings. The wharf buzzed with life—restaurants spilling out onto the promenade, couples in linen and heels sipping cocktails, music drifting from open bars. He buttoned his jacket and started walking. He was due to meet two of the Inkwell Order’s leads at a discreet upper floor lounge atop The Glenmore Hotel in The Rocks—a heritage bar with 180-degree rooftop views of the harbour and a long reputation for keeping secrets. But he didn’t get far.
With a screech of tires, a black Holden Caprice fishtailed into the wharf-side plaza, scattering pedestrians. The rear doors flew open, and two men in ill-fitting suits and polished shoes barreled out like heat-seeking missiles.
“Trouble,” Judd muttered.
He didn’t wait for the introductions. He broke into a sprint along the wharf, weaving through crowds and dodging wine glasses, strollers, and startled tourists. The footfalls behind him were heavy, pounding. Fast. He had maybe fifteen seconds of real estate left. The wharf ended at a dead-end railing over the marina. No exits. No staircases. The thugs were gaining. Then he saw it—a large Leopard 53 Powercat, 2022 model, already halfway off its berth. Twin Volvo Penta D6-IPS 600 engines rumbled as the sleek catamaran pulled away, its navigation lights flickering on.
Judd didn’t hesitate. With a burst of speed and a flying leap, he cleared the railing, grabbed the catamaran’s rear handrail mid-air, and swung himself onboard, rolling onto the aft deck.
“What the bloody hell?!” a voice roared behind him. The captain, shirtless under an unzipped sailing jacket, tanned and barefoot, scrambled up from the cockpit. Sun-bleached curls flopped over his forehead. His eyes were blue, sharp, and filled with mischief. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in three days and hadn’t obeyed a rule in ten years.
“I’ll make it worth your while if you put some distance between us and those two rather large gentlemen on the dock,” Judd called out.
The captain’s brow furrowed, then his face broke into a lopsided grin. “Right-o, mate. I’m not keen on hosting a knuckle sandwich party on deck.”
He spun the wheel, pushed the throttles forward, and the twin diesels growled in response. The Leopard 53 surged ahead, its broad hull cutting through the water like a blade. Foam curled away from the bow as the cruiser picked up speed, leaving the wharf—and Judd’s pursuers—rapidly behind. They slipped beneath the Sydney Harbour Bridge, its arched steel ribs glowing orange under floodlights. Built in 1932, the bridge had been the pride of a nation, the lifeline connecting the city’s northern and southern shores.
Tonight, it was Judd’s escape route. And it looked like for now, the danger had subsided. Other than the high speed ferries, no one else was on the water tonight. He could relax and breath. Take a minute to figure out his next steps.
The Sydney Opera House came into view, its iconic white sails lit like ivory under the stars. It rose like a dream from Bennelong Point, part sculpture, part siren’s call—an architectural masterpiece known as much for its silhouette as for the symphonies it hosted. On the water, light poured from apartments, condos, and penthouses along the shore. The city glowed behind them. Judd leaned against the railing, catching his breath. The captain cut the engines slightly and turned.
“Okay, mate. Looks like I got you out of a spot of bother back there,” he said, still grinning. “I’m not in the habit of bailing out strangers, so what gives?” He extended a hand.
“I’m Darren, but my mates call me Daz. And you are…?”
