Chapter Twenty-Four #2
“You think this is it? It’s really clean. I was expecting something a lot sketchier for something so fucking dirty,” Zayn mutters, scanning the block.
“We’ll know soon enough. If Nathan’s in tonight’s stream, then this is our place. He’s definitely here,” I reply, eyes never leaving the front door.
We wait, nerves coiling tighter with every passing minute.
Dean’s cross-legged on the curb with his laptop, but this isn’t like the movies—there’s no instant magic.
His fingers fly over the keys, but he keeps swearing under his breath.
“Christ, they’re running double firewalls and rotating proxies.
The Wi-Fi’s got MAC filtering, too. Give me a sec…
” Sweat beads at his hairline as he cycles through VPNs, code streaming by, backtracking and rerouting when another dead end pops up.
Ten minutes. Fifteen. The tension is unbearable.
Zayn and I keep our eyes glued to the house, every muscle tight, every shadow a possible threat.
I keep checking over my shoulder, pulse pounding.
Each time Dean mutters, “Almost there… fuck, come on…” I feel hope and dread twist tighter together in my gut.
Finally, after what feels like forever, Dean lets out a shaky breath.
“I’m in. Jesus, that was a bitch.” He pops in a USB drive as the live feed opens at last, his grin wild with adrenaline and relief.
“I’m downloading all their fucking files.
” I stare at him, shocked and impressed, realizing just how damn lucky we are to have him on our side.
“Dean, is there security camera access?” I try to keep my voice steady, but my nerves are raw.
Dean’s fingers blur over the keyboard and, one by one, feeds pop up—grainy footage from every room.
Three bedrooms, girls in each, the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room…
My breath catches as the last feed loads.
My jaw goes slack. “What the fuck,” I whisper, dread and fury mixing in my gut.
There’s Ayla, chained by her ankle in the basement, bruised and battered but unmistakably alive.
The camera quality is shit, but it doesn’t matter—she’s there.
She’s alive. Right fucking there. Relief and rage crash over me in equal measure as I watch her on the screen, and for the first time in weeks, hope flares—sharp and blinding.
I lurch forward, ready to storm the house, but Dean’s voice cuts through the panic—sharp, commanding, leaving no room for argument.
“Absolutely fucking not, Alex. If you barge in there right now, you’re going to get yourself and her killed.
Sit the fuck down. Now.” It stuns me so hard I freeze; Dean never talks to me like this, but the command in his voice is real.
I drop back beside him, pulse racing, hands shaking with adrenaline and helpless rage.
Dean’s focus never wavers as he works, fingers flying over the keyboard.
“I’m searching through their files as we speak,” he mutters, the words clipped and intense.
“I’m looking for data on their customers, their security—anything we can use.
But look at the feed, Alex. There are at least three guys in the kitchen, all in black and armed with assault rifles.
Not to mention, Nathan and Charles. This isn’t something we can just rush.
One wrong move and they’ll kill her—and us. ”
My voice cracks, desperate. “What do we do?” My eyes flick to the screen, to Ayla chained up. “She’s chained to the fucking floor, Dean!”
He doesn’t look up. “We’ll get her out, but you need to calm the fuck down and let me do my goddamn job, Alex.” The finality in his voice brooks no argument. I force myself to breathe, trusting Dean to do what he does best—even if it means waiting when every instinct in me is screaming to act.
Dean scans what appears to be a rotating security schedule on the screen, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
“Based on what I’m seeing here, the best shot is weekday mornings—early, when the guards change.
During those windows, security is at its lowest, just two guys on shift.
Any other time, it’s triple coverage and constant patrols. ”
My heart sinks. “Dean, it’s Saturday.”
He glances at me, pain etched deep in his features.
“I know. But if we go tonight or tomorrow, we’re up against a full team—at least three guards inside, plus Nathan and Charles.
If we wait until Monday morning, we’ll have the smallest window.
I know it’s asking a lot, but it’s our best chance to get in and out without a bloodbath. ”
I clench my fists, fighting the urge to scream. “And just leave her chained in that fucking basement for two more days?” My voice is raw, barely more than a whisper, but heavy with fury.
Zayn steps in, voice steady but full of warning. “Alex, we want the same thing. But last time you acted on impulse, well, look where we are. We have to do this smart.”
He’s right, as much as it kills me to admit it. I force myself to breathe and turn to Dean. “Can you bring the security system access with us if we leave?”
Dean nods, his confidence returning as his fingers fly over the keyboard. “Yeah. Now that I’ve cracked their network, I can monitor cameras and alarms from anywhere. Their firewalls are basically Swiss cheese.”
We sit in tense silence, the plan forming between us—painful, but necessary. Every second we wait feels like a betrayal, but this time, we’re going to get it right.
The drive back to the loft on my bike is exactly what I need—wind howling in my ears, adrenaline still burning in my veins, every muscle coiled and tense from hours of watching, waiting, and wanting to break something.
Even though it feels like the wrong direction—leaving Ayla behind, if only for two nights—I push the throttle harder, desperate to outrun my own frustration.
I know I’ll beat Dean and Zayn back. When I finally pull in, I head straight upstairs and strip off my gear.
By the time I step into the shower, I’m so tightly wound I can barely breathe.
The hot water hits my skin, steam swirling around me, and I try to let it wash some of the tension away.
I scrub my hair, run soap over my body with the loofah, but it’s not enough.
I brace my hand on the tile, drop my head, and let the water run down my face—trying to breathe, to ground myself.
My hand drifts to my cock, instinct more than desire.
This isn’t about pleasure—it’s about release.
I start stroking, slow and mechanical, just trying to bleed off some of the edge, to quiet the storm inside me.
It’s not sexy, not even close. It’s just something I need.
I find a rough rhythm, chasing relief, when the bathroom door creaks open and Dean steps in, his eyes meeting mine through the haze of steam.