Chapter 6
The rain had thinned to mist by the time Jonas reached Clara’s street but the air still carried the metallic tang of wet asphalt and diesel, the night heavy with the kind of damp that made a person feel cold to the bone.
He moved like a shadow, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, hood up, a man with no reason to be noticed.
He wasn’t supposed to be there tonight. He’d told himself he’d wait, gather more intel, test the seams of her world until he could slide through without anyone noticing.
But something gnawed at him, something restless and sharp, and when he looked up at her window, and the faint line of light behind drawn curtains, he couldn’t make himself turn away.
It was late, after one am and yet she was still awake.
That in itself gave him pause. What kept her up?
Then he saw it, a dark van.
It was parked two doors down from Clara’s building, matte black, too clean for the street, a florist decal on the side when there were no flower shops for miles, and certainly no deliveries at this time of night.
Condensation hadn’t fogged its windows either, despite the wet night, and the glow of a phone screen lit briefly behind the glass before vanishing.
Jonas slowed, posture casual, but his mind catalogued every detail: angle of the mirrors, slight dip at the back axle, signal jammer wired crudely on the dashboard.
Not amateurs, then, but not anywhere near as good as his team.
Clara wasn’t safe. The thought made his gut twist.
Jonas’s pulse kicked hard. He’d seen enough stakeouts, enough bad operations, to know the signs. Someone was watching her, waiting. And if he could see them, maybe they’d already seen him.
His plan to observe her shattered in an instant.
There would be no waiting, no careful preparation.
If she stayed here tonight, she was a target.
He shoved his hand inside his pocket; the zip ties he always carried were there, as was the kit he always carried in case of emergency.
His gun was tucked into the back of his jeans and covered by his jacket.
He had to take her.
Now.
He crossed the street, pace unhurried, eyes scanning every angle.
Outwardly, he was just another nameless person in a city full of nobodies.
A drunk couple stumbled out of a pub on the corner, laughing too loud, their presence a gift, a cover for his movements.
Jonas slipped into the shadows by Clara’s building just as the van’s engine ticked once, like an impatient heartbeat.
He ran a hand along the keypad at the building’s front door.
An old, outdated system, cheap wiring, easily fooled.
He pulled a narrow strip of foil and a bypass chip from his pocket, worked them into the slot, and the lock gave a soft, obedient click.
He was inside in seconds, the stairwell dim and smelling faintly of fresh paint and bleach.
Every sense sharpened. He moved silently, each step measured, the creak of worn treads avoided without thought up to the third floor. He knew the pattern of her steps on those stairs by heart already, now he made his own.
At her door, he pressed his hand flat against the wood.
Light glowed faintly at the edges, a quiet hum of life within.
Jonas’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to do this like a ghost in the night.
He didn’t want to terrify her. But better terrified in his hands than vanished into the back of a black van.
Pulling a mask over his head, he wondered for a split second if he should let her see his face, but his training overrode his doubt as he settled the black fabric against his skin.
He fought the memories of his own kidnapping as he breathed through the fibres before changing his mind and yanking it off.
He picked the lock quickly, the pins yielding with barely a whisper.
Inside.
Her flat smelled faintly of lavender and citrus, undercut with something sweeter, fruit, maybe, from the drink she’d left on the counter.
His gaze flicked over everything in seconds: the folded blanket on the sofa, the stack of books on the table, the towel still damp where she’d hung it.
Details that shouldn’t matter but pressed into him anyway, intimate as a fingerprint.
And then, Clara.
She stepped out of the bedroom, pyjama bottoms low on her hips, hair damp and loose around her shoulders, one hand clutching her phone. She froze when she saw him, her eyes widening, mouth parting in a sharp inhale.
Jonas raised his hands slightly, palms out. “Quiet,” he murmured. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Her phone clattered to the floor. She stumbled back, her breath coming fast, eyes flicking to the door, to the window, calculating escape.
Jonas stepped forward, snatching the phone from the floor and pocketing it, before holding a hand out to her, as if calming a frightened animal. “Clara, listen to me. You’re not safe here. Someone’s watching your building. If you stay—”
She darted for the door. Fast.
Jonas caught her, one hand wrapping around her wrist, the other steady at her shoulder.
She twisted, sharp and strong, surprising him with her fight.
Her knee came up, narrowly missing his balls.
For a moment, their faces were inches apart, her breath ragged, his heart slamming in his chest as he retrained her.
It was a risk letting her see his face but seeing the terror on hers made him glad he wasn’t some faceless mask.
“Let me go!” she hissed, her voice breaking with fear.
“I can’t,” Jonas said, the words scraping raw from his throat. “If I do, they’ll take you instead. I won’t let that happen.”
Her eyes blazed, confusion and terror warring with something else, something that flickered for just a heartbeat. Recognition maybe, or the same spark he’d felt in the museum when she’d tilted her head at him like he was a puzzle she wanted to solve.
A noise split the air. The van’s engine, revving closer now.
Jonas swore under his breath. No time. He pulled a slim canister from his jacket, pressed it to the smoke alarm on the ceiling.
The device beeped once, then the silence was split by the loud blaring of the smoke alarm going off.
He needed cover. A distraction, chaos. He yanked the breaker in the hallway fuse box, plunging the flat into darkness just as shouting came from the ground floor.
Clara gasped, panic rising.
Jonas gripped her arm more firmly, guiding her toward the back stairs. “Trust me.”
“I don’t even know you!”
“I know,” he said, voice low, urgent, the words almost a plea. “But you will.”
He got her into the stairwell, her bare feet slipping on the cold linoleum, her breath coming fast as she tried to wrench free.
At the second floor, a cry rang out from below, female, filled with fear, followed by the heavy slam of a door.
Jonas’s instincts screamed. They were inside and he’d run out of time.
“Move,” he hissed, practically lifting her when she faltered. She struggled, nails biting into his arm, but he didn’t let go as he pushed her through the fire exit doors and ushered her down the stairs.
They burst into the alley at the back of the building, the smell of rot and damp brick thick in the air. A shadow moved at the far end, another man, blocking the exit. Clara gasped, tried to pull away, but Jonas tightened his hold, scanning the angles.
Fight or vanish.
He shoved Clara behind him, his body angled to shield hers, and met the man head-on, hoping she wouldn’t try and run.
The first blow landed hard, a crack across Jonas’s jaw, but he absorbed it, countered with ruthless precision.
Fist to the gut, elbow to the throat. He could just shoot the man, but it would draw too much attention and killing would terrify Clara even more.
The man staggered, wheezing, before whipping out a wicked-looking blade and aiming it at Jonas with a smirk.
It was time to end this and get the fuck out of there, but before he could attack, the man lunged, swiping at his gut, the blade nicking his jacket.
Adrenalin surged through him as he blocked the next strike with his forearm, knocking the blade from the other man’s hand.
Wasting no time, Jonas lunged with a two-strike combo to his attacker’s face and gut, before driving into his jaw with an elbow.
The man grunted before going down, out cold.
Jonas didn’t hesitate; he grabbed Clara, dragged her toward the fire escape, and started to climb.
Her voice broke in the dark. “Stop, please.”
Jonas didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Every muscle screamed, every instinct burned. This wasn’t how he wanted it, but the choice had been ripped from him.
By the time they reached the roof, his chest heaved, Clara trembled against him, the city spread in wet lights below. The van’s engine growled in the street, doors slamming as more men spilled out.
Jonas pulled Clara close, one arm firm around her, the other reaching for the comms unit he’d left silent too long. His voice was a rasp, torn between fury at himself for failing and a desperation to keep Clara safe at all costs.
“Command, this is Watchdog. I’m compromised. I need an urgent exfil.”
Static crackled back. Then Bás’s voice, sharp and clipped: “What the hell, Watchdog?”
Jonas looked down at Clara, her eyes wide, shining with fear and something else. Betrayal, disbelief, and he felt the weight of every choice pressing down on him.
He’d crossed the line and there was no going back.
A beat of silence stretched. Then another voice cut through, calm and precise. Duchess. “Watchdog, listen to me. North side. Two blocks over there’s a maintenance ladder. Take it down, follow the alley east. We’ll cover your tail.”
Jonas blinked. “Duchess?”
“Move.”
There was no time to argue. He guided Clara toward the ladder, keeping her close as they descended.
The night was alive with pursuit, shouts behind them, the van’s doors slamming, footsteps pounding over wet concrete.
Jonas’s instincts tracked every sound, every shift of shadow, and still the weight of Clara in his grip anchored him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.
They broke into the alley. Two men rounded the corner, but before Jonas could react, gunfire cracked sharply against the night. The attackers scattered, ducking behind cover as a motorcycle roared past, tyres skidding, and he recognised Titan’s bike.
“Left!” Duchess’s voice again, hard in his ear.
Jonas pushed Clara ahead, breath burning in his lungs, muscles screaming. His focus narrowed: one foot, then the other, protect her, don’t stop.
Then, headlights flared. A black van swung across the mouth of the alley. For one furious second Jonas thought it was the enemy, but the side door slid open, and Lotus leaned out, rifle braced, eyes sharp under her dark fringe.
“In!” she snapped.
Jonas shoved Clara forward, boosting her into the van before climbing in after her. Hands caught him, Bein, solid as a wall, hauling him the last step inside, Reaper covering their flank with fire until the door slammed shut.
The van lurched into motion, tyres squealing. Jonas braced himself against the wall, Clara pressed into the seat beside him, trembling and silent.
He stared at them all, breath ragged. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Bein’s hand clapped his shoulder once, heavy with weight and certainty. “You’re family, Watchdog. And family always knows when one of their own needs them.”
Jonas’s throat worked, words caught somewhere between gratitude and fury.
Reaper leaned back in his seat, smirking, his weapon resting casually across his lap. “Well, mate, looks like you’re in deep shit now. Snatching brides in the middle of the night? Even for you, that’s a new one.”
Lotus snorted softly, checking her ammo with deft fingers. “Bás is going to kill you before he even asks questions.”
“He can get in line,” Jonas muttered, running a hand over his face.
The van jostled hard, Clara flinching at the motion, and he found himself shifting instinctively, steadying her before she could fall. Her feet were covered in dirt and blood, cuts from running barefoot through the streets.
“Her feet.” He leaned forward to reach for Clara’s ankle and pain in his side made him hiss.
For a moment, the silence held, thick with adrenaline and the unspoken storm to come.
Then Bein’s voice, low but sharp. “Watchdog. You’re bleeding.”
Jonas looked down, finally registering the hot slickness along his side, the bloom of red spreading across his shirt where the knife had slipped home in the fight.
He blinked once, the world tilting slightly at the edges. “Oh,” he said, almost absently. “That explains it.”
Clara gasped, her hand covering her mouth, eyes fixed on the stain seeping through his clothes.
And in the close, racing darkness of the van, the team pressed in tighter, the reality of what Jonas had set in motion settling over them all.