20. Jon
TWENTY
Jon
Something’s wrong with the driver.
The first hint is subtle—just a half-second hesitation at the green light two blocks back. Nothing anyone else would notice. Then comes the missed turn that would have taken us directly toward Guardian HQ.
“Taking an alternate route, sir,” the driver explained when Marcus questioned it. “Traffic alert on the main thoroughfare.”
Plausible. Except Marcus’s driver would have notified us before deviating from the planned route. This man keeps his cap pulled low, his shoulders tense. And there’s something about the way he holds the wheel. Too tight. Knuckles pale against the black leather.
I shift slightly, creating space between my hip and the door where my weapon rests. Marcus’s town car is luxury-armored, meant to stop bullets from getting in.
Right now, I’m more concerned about us getting out.
The streets grow less familiar with each turn. We should be heading north toward the coast, but instead we’re moving east, toward the inland hills. Reynolds makes another turn, this one sharper than necessary. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror, not checking traffic.
Checking us.
“The restaurant was lovely.” Aria fills the silence that’s stretched too long. “Thank you for dinner. I’m sorry we didn’t get to enjoy it.”
Her voice sounds normal, but her fingers tighten around mine beneath the fold of her dress. She senses the tension radiating from me, even if she doesn’t understand its source.
Marcus nods, still focused on his phone. “Garrison always prepares something special when I bring guests.”
I’ve been in enough dangerous situations to recognize the familiar calm settling over me—heart rate steady, senses sharpening, mind calculating options and outcomes. We’ve traveled at least six blocks in the wrong direction now.
Too far for coincidence. Too deliberate for a mistake.
The car makes another turn onto a road leading away from city lights. That’s the fourth deviation from our route.
This isn’t a detour. It’s an abduction in progress.
My phone vibrates.
Driver not responding to dispatch calls. Everything okay? CJ’s message confirms what I’ve already concluded.
Three options: wait and gather intelligence, attempt to overpower the driver, or exit the vehicle at the next stop. The first feels right. We don’t know how many hostiles are involved or what weapons they have. Better to wait, gather intel, and choose the moment.
I type back one-handed, keeping my movements casual: Compromised. Prepare extraction team.
The car slows for a red light. For half a second, I consider changing plans.
The three of us could exit now, but we’d be exposed on an unfamiliar street with limited cover.
I glance at Aria, at the thin fabric of her dress, at Marcus’s polished shoes unsuited for running.
The temperature outside hovers around fifty degrees according to the car’s display.
“Is everything alright, Mr. Knutt?” Marcus’s gaze lifts from his phone, sharp and assessing. “You seem—distracted.”
“Just planning our security protocols for when we arrive.” The lie comes easily. No need to escalate until I have more information.
The light changes. The driver accelerates too quickly, then makes another turn onto a street lined with shuttered businesses.
We’re heading into an industrial area now.
Buildings grow sparse, streetlights fewer.
The expensive shops and restaurants have given way to manufacturing plants and warehouses.
“I think we’re going the wrong way.” Aria’s voice carries the first hint of concern.
Marcus frowns, leaning forward to tap the privacy glass. “Driver, you’ve missed the turn for Guardian HQ.”
No response.
“I’m speaking to you, son.” He taps harder.
The privacy partition slides up fully instead of down, sealing us in the back compartment. The locks engage with an audible click.
“What the hell is this?” Marcus reaches for the door handle, yanking it uselessly. “Do you know who I am? I’ll have your job for this.”
His face reddens, more offended than frightened, like a customer receiving poor service rather than a man in danger.
“We’re being taken.” I drop all pretense, drawing my weapon. “Stay down and away from the windows.”
Aria’s eyes widen, but she immediately slides lower in her seat. Marcus stares at my gun with naked disapproval.
“Is this really necessary? It’s likely just a misunderstanding with the service?—”
“It’s not.” I cut him off, checking the magazine of my Glock even though I know exactly how many rounds it contains. “Your driver’s been replaced. This was planned.”
The car swerves hard right, throwing Marcus against the door. He curses, more indignant than frightened, as if this is an inconvenience rather than a life-threatening situation. We screech down an access road, emerging into an empty lot surrounded by abandoned warehouses.
Three black SUVs appear from side streets, blocking every escape route. The town car halts, trapped by the larger vehicles. The SUVs move, each vehicle positioned to prevent escape, engines still running, headlights illuminating our car from multiple angles.
“Call Guardian HRS,” I tell Aria, passing her my phone. “Tell them our location.”
She takes it, fingers trembling but resolute as she swipes at the screen. Her jaw tightens. “No signal.”
Of course. Jammers.
“I pay half a million dollars annually for security.” Marcus straightens his jacket, fury replacing shock. “Whoever’s responsible will regret?—”
“Get down!” I grab his shoulder, forcing him lower as the first SUV’s doors open. “These aren’t ordinary kidnappers.”
Instead of complying, Marcus shoves my hand away.
“Don’t manhandle me. I’ve dealt with extortion attempts before.
” He turns to Aria, his expression showing more annoyance than concern for his daughter’s safety.
“This is precisely why I didn’t want you involved in that ridiculous candle shop in that neighborhood.
You’ve attracted attention we don’t need. ”
The callousness of his response—blaming Aria while ignoring the immediate threat to her safety—sends a spike of disgust through my chest. Not the reaction of a protective father.
“Dad, this isn’t about the shop—” Aria begins, but Marcus cuts her off.
“Of course it is. You’ve been parading around town with those—former street people. Did you really think that wouldn’t make you a target? Your association with them has compromised our security.”
Even now, with armed men surrounding us, Marcus’s priority is assigning blame rather than protecting his daughter. I catch Aria’s expression, the hurt quickly masked behind resignation. This isn’t new behavior for him.
Four men emerge from each vehicle. Black tactical gear, faces obscured by balaclavas, weapons drawn but held low. Their movement is coordinated and disciplined. This has to be Night Pack, but with a level of military precision that wasn’t present in our previous encounters.
“Jon?” Aria’s voice is steady despite the fear in her eyes. “What do we do?”
The bulletproof glass buys us minutes, but not salvation. I assess our position: outnumbered, outgunned, with no communication and no backup arriving in time.
“We—”
A hissing sound cuts me off. Cold mist seeps through the car’s ventilation system, filling the cabin with chemical sweetness.
Gas. Fuck.
I rip off my jacket and press it against Aria’s face. “Shallow breaths through this.”
Her eyes meet mine, wide with understanding. She nods, pressing the fabric tighter.
Marcus coughs once, then lurches for the cloth.
“Give me that?—”
I shove him back with more force than necessary.
His eyes flash with something dangerous—possessiveness, not protection—before he controls his expression. But his actions betray him. Instead of trying to protect Aria, he fumbles for his phone, fingers desperately typing what I suspect is a call to his security team.
Not a word to comfort his daughter. Not a move to shield her. Just self-preservation wrapped in expensive tailoring.
“Your phone will be blocked,” I tell him, disgust barely contained. “They’re using jammers.”
“I have private channels,” he snaps, continuing to type. “Unlike your organization, my security team has proper contingencies.”
Even as the gas fills the car, Marcus’s priority is clear: Marcus Holbrook. Not his daughter. Not the woman he insisted on protecting at his penthouse rather than Guardian HQ.
His own damn skin.
I want to kill him.
I try the emergency release under the seat. Nothing. They’ve thought of everything. The gas thickens, clouding my vision. My lungs burn despite my attempt to hold my breath. My limbs grow heavy, and my responses grow sluggish.
“Jon…” Aria’s voice sounds distant despite her proximity. The jacket slips from her grasp as the sedative takes effect.
“Stay awake,” I manage, even as darkness edges my vision. “Remember everything you see. Count… Count the men. Note details.”
Marcus slumps against the window, unconscious. Aria fights longer, her training from our previous ordeal evident in her resistance. However, the gas is too potent and professionally formulated. Her eyelids flutter as she struggles to remain conscious.
A sharp tap on the window draws my attention. I force my head to turn, fighting the chemicals pulling me under.
Damien Wolfe stands there, immaculate in a charcoal suit that whispers new money. Not the rabid dog from our intelligence files—this man looks refined, controlled. His hair is perfectly styled, his posture relaxed. No visible weapon, yet he radiates danger more effectively than his armed men.
He smiles, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes, too similar to Marcus’s.
Something about that smile stops my heart colder than the gas. This is revenge.
Something beyond the half-brothers’ feud.
The door opens. Hands reach for Aria. I lunge forward on instinct, muscles betraying me as I collapse half across her lap. My gun clatters uselessly to the floor.
“Jon.” Her fingers brush my cheek as they pull her away, the touch featherlight but deliberate. A goodbye, or perhaps a promise.
I fight the darkness, memorizing faces, counting men, gathering intelligence even as my consciousness slips.
Marcus is dragged out next. Even sedated, his body language speaks of entitlement, chin lifted as if he’s being inconvenienced rather than kidnapped.
The contrast between father and daughter is stark.
Aria thinks of others in danger.
Marcus is concerned only with himself.
The last thing I see before blackness takes me is Wolfe bending to whisper something in Aria’s ear, his lips close to her temple, almost tender. Her eyes widen with shock before they roll back in sedated sleep.