Chapter Twenty-Six
Alexander
Monday morning rolls in heavy, the weight of what’s ahead pressing down on all of us.
This is what we’ve spent sleepless nights preparing for, what every whispered plan and sharpened blade has led to.
We load up ammo and guns—hoping we won’t need them, but knowing we probably will.
My knife is strapped to my belt, Dean and Zayn armed in turn, each of us carrying the same grim resolve.
We all know the risks. Today, we’re betting everything on saving Ayla, no matter what it costs.
Dean checks the security feeds one last time.
“Just two guards on site, like I predicted,” he says, voice tight.
That’s our window—small, but it’s all we’ll get.
We pack what we need into the Jeep: zip ties, gloves, burner phones, extra ammo, and bulletproof vests strapped under our shirts.
There’s no banter, no bravado—just a silent, shared determination.
Zayn takes the driver’s seat, Dean shotgun, and I’m on my bike as always—the tip of the spear.
Before I pull on my helmet, I pause at the driver’s side of the Jeep, looking each of them in the eyes.
“Alright, boys. Let’s go get our fucking girl.
” The words are rough, torn from somewhere deep, but they land like a promise.
I swing onto my bike, heart pounding, adrenaline and fear and rage burning through my veins.
I want to race—want to tear down every red light between us and that house—but I force myself to keep pace, waiting for Dean and Zayn to catch up.
Every mile, my mind flashes with what I saw on those feeds—the way they beat Ayla, raped her, tortured her for their sick pleasure, streaming every violation live for the world to see.
Each clip burns behind my eyes: her sobs echoing in the darkness, the bruises on her skin, the way her body went limp in defeat, the sick laughter of Charles and Nathan, their faces masked but their voices gleeful, as they paraded her suffering for their paying audience.
The urge to kill Charles and Nathan with my bare hands is a living thing inside me—hot, feral, barely leashed.
Garbage like them doesn’t deserve mercy.
But today, it’s not about revenge, not yet. Today is just about getting Ayla out.
We pull up down the block from the house, adrenaline spiking as we check our weapons and strap guns to our holsters.
The plan is clear: stay low, don’t attack unless absolutely necessary.
Dean meets my eyes. "Alright, we’re trying to stay low profile.
We don’t shoot unless we have to, yes?" he says, his voice steady, but the warning is for me.
I nod, jaw tight, promising nothing. Zayn scans the house, eyes sharp, all business.
“The guards are in the kitchen. I say we take the back door, closest to the basement.”
We move in silence, masks pulled down, nerves electric. The back door is locked, but Zayn slips his knife between the frame, jimmies the latch, and the door pops open with a soft click. We slip inside, hearts pounding, adrenaline spiking so hard I feel it in my teeth, ready for hell.
Inside, the house looks deceptively normal—soft light, family photos on the walls, nothing to betray the hell happening behind closed doors.
Every sense is buzzing, the silence as dangerous as a loaded gun.
We creep down the hall, hearts hammering, praying we won’t have to face the guards before we reach Ayla.
Each step is torture—the boards creak, the shadows seem to move, and my hands are slick with sweat.
But when we get to the basement door, it’s padlocked.
Not just locked—heavy, industrial, the kind meant to keep secrets buried.
Fuck. My hands shake, fear and rage warring in my chest, every muscle coiled tight and ready to snap.
“What the hell do we do now?” I growl, voice a rough whisper, my nerves sparking. Zayn peeks around the corner, careful to stay out of sight. There—a guard stands in the kitchen, the ring of keys jangling from his belt. “We need those keys,” I whisper, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.
“How do you propose we do that?” Zayn shoots back, his voice low and sharp, the tension between us palpable.
The air is thick, every second stretching out, our fear and frustration mounting.
We crouch in silence, holding our breath, waiting as the house settles around us—every tick of the clock, every distant sound making my skin crawl.
Then—finally—footsteps. Boots, heavy and purposeful, are coming down the hall.
One of the guards heads toward the bathroom, oblivious, the keys swinging. It’s now or never.
“This is my chance,” I say, voice almost a growl.
Zayn nods, eyes sharp and fierce, every muscle in his body ready to pounce.
I move, slow and silent, stalking him down the hall, knife already in my hand, my heart slamming against my ribs.
He doesn’t know I’m there until I’m right behind him—blade pressing to his throat. “Give me the fucking keys.”
He freezes, a shiver of fear running through him, but then he laughs—a low, guttural sound, full of bravado. “Or what?” he taunts.
I dig the tip of my knife into his skin, just enough to draw blood.
His taunt sets something wild loose in me—screw quiet and controlled, I want him to know what real fear tastes like.
“You think this is a fucking joke?” I snarl, voice shaking with rage.
“You think you can taunt me, after everything you’ve done?
I WILL fucking kill you. I’ll gut you and leave you here to bleed out and not lose a minute of sleep.
You think I won’t?” I drag the blade a little deeper, a bright line of red trickling down his neck.
The tough guy persona slips, his eyes going wide, panic flickering where arrogance was a second ago.
Good. I want him to know exactly how close he is to dying, and that any hope of mercy died the second he opened his mouth.
“You think I don’t know you sit here, watching while they rape those girls?
My girl? Torture them?” I snarl, pressing the blade harder to his throat, dragging it just enough to draw a flowing line of blood.
He groans, a desperate sound, but still trying to maintain control, refusing to hand over the keys.
My grip tightens, voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
“You think you deserve any fucking mercy? You don’t even deserve to breathe.
” That is the exact moment I snap; realization of what a piece of shit this guy is washes over me.
“I bet you stick around in a sad attempt to get a piece—” I dig the knife deeper.
“Of—” deeper still, “the—” and as I say, “action,” I drag the blade across his throat, not waiting for him to beg.
Blood erupts in a hot, arterial spray, splattering my gloves and the floor, his eyes wide with shock and terror as his life drains away.
He collapses at my feet, gurgling, clawing at his throat, and I don’t look away.
I want him to know exactly why he’s dying.
Justice—brutal, absolute, and long overdue, the plan long forgotten.
The second guard comes back toward the kitchen, but Zayn is already moving—knife out, eyes wild.
He grabs the guy by the back of his shirt and yanks him backward, slamming him into the wall.
For a split second, the guard freezes, then swings, catching Zayn in the shoulder.
I lunge forward, adrenaline roaring, and together we crash into him—my arm locking around his chest, Zayn grabbing for his wrist. He thrashes, boots kicking, elbows flying, cursing and spitting as we struggle to take him down.
He’s bigger than I expected, fighting dirty, and for a terrifying second I think he’ll break free.
“Hold him!” Zayn grunts through clenched teeth, trying to pin the guy’s arm behind his back.
The guard bucks and my grip almost slips, but I dig in, kneeing his thigh and twisting until he finally collapses under our combined weight.
My heartbeat is in my ears, breath burning, muscles shaking with effort.
Zayn shoves the guy face-down on the floor, knee in his spine, and I fumble in my pocket, pulling out a zip tie with trembling hands.
Together, we wrestle his arms behind his back, struggling to keep him down as he thrashes.
It takes everything we have to cinch the ties around his wrists, his curses muffled as Zayn stuffs a rag in his mouth.
We roll him over and drag him to a kitchen chair, tying his ankles to the legs and tying rope around his chest and arms, securing him in place.
By the time it’s done, I’m breathless, sweat dripping down my face, and the guard is still glaring, eyes full of hate and fear.
Zayn’s knuckles are bloodied, his chest heaving, but he just wipes his hand on his jeans and glares back.
I double-check the ties, jaw clenched, hands shaking.
“Stay down,” I snap, voice rough. “Make a sound, and you’ll wish you hadn’t. ”
Zayn locks eyes with me, both of us bruised and panting, but determined. For a split second, the kitchen is silent except for our frantic breathing and the bound guard’s muffled grunts. I grab the ring of keys, slick with sweat and blood, and shoot Zayn a look. “Watch him. Don’t let him get up.”