Duchess nodded crisply. “I’ll tug them. Quietly. He’ll burn contacts, but he can’t burn all of them.”
“Titan, you and Bein keep on the house when he finishes reconning the park. Bishop, Reaper, I want financials dug out. Oliver’s family, Clara’s family, everything. Find out where the pressure points are. Hurricane, Snow, you’re on the friends and associates list. Dig into anyone who’s shown sudden wealth or movement.”
“Copy that,” Hurricane said, already jotting down notes.
“And, Watchdog,” Bás said, his tone shifting, anchoring, “you keep your eyes on the feeds. Every camera, every chatter line, every shadow and whisper on the dark web. He pops up, I want to know before his arse hits a chair.”
Watchdog nodded once, precise. “Already done. I’ve tagged his biometrics across the City’s recognition systems. Even a glimpse, I’ll get it. We should head home. This is going to be a marathon, not a sprint. I’ll reach out to Jack and Zack, see if they can help with Lena and the parents’ surveillance.”
The certainty in his own voice surprised him. But it was true.
Bás lifted his chin in agreement. “I agree. Let’s wrap this up and get back to Wales.”
For the first time since Oliver had walked up bold as brass and shoved a gun into Clara’s ribs, he felt in control again.
Monty stirred at his feet, nose twitching, and Scout’s tail thudded against the floor. The dogs always knew when tension had broken. He let his hand drop to scratch Monty’s ears, the simple rhythm grounding him.
His gaze flicked up. Around the table, his team was watching him, some still smirking, others simply steady. Not pitying. Not doubting. Just watching.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like the weak link.
The meeting broke up with a shuffle of chairs and low chatter. Assignments were already being discussed in pairs and trios as people peeled off, Titan murmuring to Snow, Duchess bent over her phone.
Watchdog powered down the screen feeds but left the processes running. Nothing would slip past him tonight. Not Oliver. Not the shadow in the car.
He lingered a beat longer, Monty pressing against his leg, Scout sprawled across his boots. Comfort. Guard. Family. He gave them both a final scratch before straightening, the air in his chest lighter than it had been in days.
The corridor upstairs was hushed. The stairs creaked the same way they had earlier, the second and fourth steps the loudest. His mind ticked through the details automatically, but his body carried him forward without conscious thought.
He paused at her door. The wood was thin, painted over too many times. He pressed his palm against it, just for a second, before easing it open.
Clara lay curled on the bed, duvet tugged high, one hand resting on the pillow near her face. Her hair spilled across the sheets, dark against the white, and her lips were parted on soft, even breaths. The lamp still glowed faintly, throwing golden light across her skin.
She hadn’t waited for the food. Exhaustion had claimed her first.
Something eased in him at the sight. Relief. Protectiveness. A bone-deep calm he hadn’t felt in years.
He stepped closer, just far enough to see her chest rise and fall. Then he eased the lamp off, leaving her in soft shadow, and pulled the door closed with care.
Back in the hall, he leaned against the wall, exhaling. His team had their plan. Oliver would resurface. But for now, Clara was safe, and that was enough to keep him moving.
Chapter 27
Three days.That was how long it had been since Oliver pressed a gun into her ribs and threatened to kill Lena.
Three days since Jonas had carried her out of that nightmare, his arms like iron, his voice the only steady thing in the chaos.
And somehow, impossibly, she felt almost… normal.
The compound, if that was even the right word for the hidden fortress carved into the mountainside, had begun to feel familiar. The constant low hum of generators, the antiseptic tang that clung to the medical wing, the smell of coffee always brewing somewhere. At first, it had been overwhelming, the sheer scale of it all, but she was adjusting.
She’d been given a small but comfortable apartment, the shelves already stacked with books someone had thought to leave for her. She suspected Jonas. He’d never admit it, but she knew.
Every morning, she spoke to Lena over secure comms, the line always crackling faintly but clear enough to hear her friend’s voice. Lena reassured her she was safe, her girlfriend was at her side, and every call left Clara lighter.
She hadn’t spoken to her parents. The thought of it made her stomach knot. Her mother would scold, her father would deflect, and all she’d hear was Oliver’s voice: We had a deal.
So, she didn’t call, but she knew they were safe. Jonas had assured her they were.
