Chapter Eleven Tactical Surveillance
Chapter eleven
Tactical Surveillance
Warren hadn’t been able to get Jude out of his head since Friday.
He knew trauma. Real trauma. He’d studied it in training rooms with two-way mirrors and stale coffee.
Monitored it in suspects. De-escalated it in teenagers with knives in their pockets and grief behind their eyes.
Panic spoke a language he understood fluently.
Tight shoulders, shallow breaths, eyes hunting for exits.
Jude had ticked every box. Textbook.
And yet, Warren had felt a crack in his gut go deeper than protocol. Something that had nothing to do with duty or reports or the job.
Something older. Rawer.
Protect.
That was the instinct. Not investigate. Not observe.
Protect.
Was he compromised?
Or just human.
Now, three days later, here he was, standing by the school minibus in a waterproof jacket, ticking off names on a tablet.
He’d logged the incident that night in his secure notes for the taskforce.
Jude Ellison, possible historic victim, displays physiological signs of unresolved trauma; link to Callum Reid: strong likelihood.
Flagged it low-level for now, under the guise of teacher welfare, in case anyone checked.
Because he didn’t want to be pulled off this. Didn’t want to miss out on being close to him for this overnight school trip, where Jude wouldn’t have to go home.
Not if what he believed was happening behind closed doors.
He’d checked on him, too. Of course he had.
He’d driven by the house more than once over the weekend.
Sat in his car for hours, watching the windows, waiting for any sign of him.
Callum Reid. Naomi knew. He’d caught him coming back once.
And that was the worst part. “Unscheduled movements, Warren. You’re either sloppy or you’re compromised. Which one is it?”
The answer was both.
But Warren hadn’t seen Reid. Man was too smart for that.
But Warren knew. He felt it. The shape of control.
The way Jude’s shoulders were always braced too tight, as if someone was pulling strings under the surface.
It was there in the flinch. The apology.
The way he’d looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but in his own body when Warren had touched his hand.
No, Callum hadn’t shown himself. But Warren knew he was in there.
He just had to prove it.
Not guess. Not suspect. Prove.
Because until he had hard evidence, or a confession, he was just a PE teacher with an overdeveloped sense of empathy and a case file full of redacted history.
Until then, his hands were tied.
Officially.
Unofficially, they were tied too. Because how could he lay his hands on Jude again and get that response? When all he wanted to do was touch him and make him smile. Blush. Trust him. Not for the job but for something he buried way, way down.
“Alright, you lot.” Warren clapped his hands to get the group’s attention. “Get your bags under the coach, your snacks off the seats, and your attitudes reset to ‘not feral’ for the next thirty-six hours.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the Year Tens, already high on the promise of a trip away. A few elbowed each other. One kid, Reuben, shoved his oversized suitcase at the storage compartment with difficulty.
“What you got in there, Reu?” Warren helped him shove it into the back. “Your whole house?”
“It’s all his aftershave, sir!” A boy shouted from behind.
“Good, you can borrow some.” Warren tapped the kid’s back to get him onto the coach.
“Sir, I’m not sitting next to Harvey.” Lucas, the lad with a fade and floppy mop on top was already starting to wind Warren up.
Too cocky. Brash. Thought he was God’s gift ‘cause he was on the football team and had a girlfriend.
Lily. Also on the trip. Keeping an eye on those two would be almost as hard as keeping an eye on Callum Reid.
“You’re not,” Warren said. “He requested a window seat so he could dramatically pine for his Xbox. You’ll be across the aisle so I can monitor your emotional breakdown from a safe distance.”
“I’m emotionally stable,” Lucas muttered.
Warren raised a brow. “You’re wearing crocs with socks, mate. Don’t lie to yourself this early in the trip.”
That earned him another wave of laughter. Even Jude cracked a small smile as he finished checking a student off the digital register.
Warren smiled back at him.
And Jude held his gaze, though it was brief, him being accosted by a parent with a late consent form.
“Sir?” Amelia dragged her sparkly case behind her. “Can I sit with Lily?”
“Fine by me. But if I hear one TikTok noise…”
Lily grinned. “We’ll get you in the dance crew, sir.”
“Not a chance.”
Once they were all on the coach and the luggage loaded, Jude stepped forward into the aisle, clearing his throat.
“Year Ten!” He called above the chatter. “Phones away for two minutes.”
Groans.
So Warren stood behind Jude, folded his arms and glared at the culprits.
“We’re guests this weekend,” Jude said. “Portchester Castle is a historical site, and the hotel is a shared space. You represent Worthbridge Academy. That means being respectful to the staff, each other, and yourselves. If I hear about anyone breaking rules, causing trouble, or acting like a prat, you’ll be on the first train back with your parents on speed dial. Got it?”
There were nods. Mumbled agreements. One fake salute.
Jude held up a bunch of papers. “Also, I’ve brought extra worksheets in case anyone finds they have nothing to do on the journey to keep them occupied and quiet.”
Suddenly thirty students hid their heads.
“Thought not.” Jude gave a satisfied nod, then tapped something off on his tablet.
Warren had already taken the front window seat and as Jude turned off the tablet, hugging it to his chest, Warren patted the one beside him.
“You’re not sitting next to Reuben, are you?” Warren lowered his voice so not to travel over the headphones. “Kid radiates enough energy to power the National Grid.”
Jude hesitated. Long enough for Warren to think he might bolt.
Then he sat down.
The silence stretched as the coach pulled out of the car park, humming low along the bypass. Rain dotted the windows in rhythmic taps. Jude stared out at it as if it was easier than looking at Warren.
Warren stared at him.
Watched him.
He could’ve passed it off as assessment.
Checking for cracks. Noting behaviour. Cataloguing expressions.
Standard observation. But that wasn’t what he was doing.
He knew it. He was admiring. Appreciating the pale, unblemished, freshly shaven skin and the sharp curve of Jude’s jaw.
And how his Adam’s apple bobbed every time he swallowed, each breath a little too controlled.
And the way his glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and he’d clutch the entire outside rim to adjust them.
And his hair…a mess, but deliberately so.
Dark curls, a little windswept, too perfect to be accidental.
He was dressed down for the trip, too. No suit and tie.
Instead, chinos, a T-shirt layered under a fitted jumper, and trainers that were definitely more fashion than function.
He was casual but curated. Every inch of him quietly put-together.
Trim, too. Not gym-honed but cared for. Like someone who’d rebuilt their body once and learned to respect it after.
Yeah… Jude was handsome.
Objectively.
Subjectively.
Distractingly.
Warren blinked, tore his eyes away.
He wasn’t going to bring up Friday.
He was going to give Jude space. Respect. Professional distance. But the truth was, he didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t be the wrong thing.
But it was Jude who broke the silence first once the coach hit the motorway.
“How was your weekend?” He took off his glasses, cleaning them on his jumper sleeve, and Warren tried very hard not to want to gaze deeply into those revealed brown eyes. “Did your cousin let you back in?”
Warren blinked. Right. The lie.
“Ah. Yeah. In the end, she stayed the weekend at his instead.” True. Ish. Naomi had stayed with her boyfriend. She just wasn’t his cousin. She was his ex. “Probably better for my self-esteem.”
Jude slipped his glasses back on, turned to him, brow furrowed. “Huh?”
Warren scratched the back of his neck. “Hearing those noises through the wall… makes me question if I’ve ever done it right.”
Jude’s expression twisted in confusion. “With your cousin?”
Warren let out a startled laugh, realising the Freudian slip. “God, no. I meant women. In general.”
Jude looked away. “Right.”
Shit.
Warren cursed under his breath, too quiet to carry.
He hadn’t meant it to sound like a confession.
Or worse, some straight bloke faux flirting with plausible deniability.
That wasn’t his style. He didn’t have a style, not with this.
Because, no. He didn’t want to “play gay.” That was the grey area.
The bit he never quite got right. Officially, he was straight.
Always had been. Long-term relationships with women.
Box ticked. Easy enough to write off anything else as part of the job.
But there had been something else.
A few years back. Deep cover gig in Birmingham. A gang leader who didn’t trust men who said no to a drink, a hit, or a bloke. One of those tests. A moment where Warren either stepped up or blew everything. So he went along with it. With him.
Didn’t love it.
Didn’t hate it, either.
And he enjoyed it enough to pass.
That didn’t mean he was “playing” anything. Not then. Not now.
He didn’t like labels. Never had. Bisexual. Heteroflexible. Curious. Whatever word people wanted to throw on it, it didn’t matter. He… went with what made sense in the moment.
And right now?
Jude Ellison didn’t make any fucking sense.