Chapter 26
The war room was a converted dining room, the wide oak table scarred from years of use, laptop cords and burner phones sprawling across its surface like veins.
Coffee brewed thick and bitter in the corner, the air heavy with caffeine, damp wool, and the faint tang of gun oil clinging to jackets slung over the backs of chairs.
Watchdog stood at the head of the table, screens already glowing with feeds he’d pulled. Fingers ghosting over the keys, he felt steadier here, in front of circuits and code. Home. Almost.
Bás leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders filling the space, arms folded like he could hold the room together by force of will.
Duchess perched opposite him, posture perfect, a steaming mug in her hands, eyes sharp and watchful.
Lotus sprawled sideways in her chair, plaid trousers creased, boots tapping a restless rhythm on the wood floor.
Bishop and Reaper sat shoulder to shoulder, quiet but radiating that easy unity only friends who’d survived hell together carried.
Titan stood behind them. Hurricane was at the far end, still in his flight jacket, looking calm as ever.
It felt like family gathered after a storm. Tight, focused, but steady.
Valentina swept in with Monty and Scout padding at her heels. The dogs sniffed around the room before lying down at Watchdog’s feet, as if anchoring him. He didn’t miss the irony; they always did that after a rescue.
“All right,” Bás said, his voice cutting through the room like gravel. “Let’s start. Oliver Grant just put himself at the top of the fucking shit list. What do we know?”
Watchdog tapped a key, and the CCTV footage sprang to life. Oliver, striding away from the coffee stand after Clara escaped him, jaw tight, phone to his ear. The camera angle was high, grainy, but clear enough to track him.
“We had eyes on him until here.” Watchdog zoomed in, the cursor following Oliver’s silhouette as he ducked into the car waiting at the kerb. “He wasn’t alone.”
The footage flickered. For half a second, the shadow of another figure in the back seat showed, a shape, not a face. Male? Female? No certainty. His stomach clenched with the not knowing.
“Second occupant, rear passenger side,” he said, narrating as though the team couldn’t see. It was habit, the precision of stating variables out loud. “Obscured. No clear ID. Vehicle is a black BMW 5 Series, plates cloned. They switched them again two blocks later.”
He toggled through feeds, cameras from the bridge, street corners, storefronts. Oliver’s car weaving through London traffic, always just ahead of the net.
“We lost him here,” Watchdog admitted, fingers tightening on the keyboard as the car slipped into a blind spot and didn’t reappear. “No recovery.”
A heavy silence fell.
Then Duchess leaned forward, elbows on the table. “He’ll go under now. He’s too exposed, he’ll need to re-group.”
“Agreed,” Bás said. His eyes flicked to Watchdog. “Next moves?”
“Lock down Lena,” Watchdog said instantly. “She doesn’t leave safe protection. Ever. Her girlfriend, too. Both are important to Clara, so they have targets on their backs. Oliver’s already shown he’s willing to use her.”
Lotus nodded, uncharacteristically serious. “I’ll handle it. She’s resting in the downstairs bedroom.”
“And Clara’s parents?” Bishop asked.
The name was a weight, but Watchdog forced himself to meet their eyes. “Already flagged their property. Titan’s pulling satellite sweeps; Bein’s setting up external surveillance. I’ve back-doored their alarm system. If anyone breathes on that house, I’ll know.”
“We need ears inside in case Oliver visits her parents. As far as they’re concerned, he’s their saving grace, the man they were happy to marry their daughter off to, to save their own skin.”
Watchdog lifted his brows, surprised by the angry vehemence coming from Snow over the comms. She was likely pissed she had to stay home, but Fleur had a fever, and Sebastian was in court this week.
Val leaned into Bás, murmuring something he didn’t catch. The look she shot him was grateful.
“Agreed, I don’t trust their motives either. From what I’ve seen and heard, they’d happily believe whatever suits their own needs.”
“Okay, let’s get ears inside there, too. I want to keep up the hunt, keep the pressure on this fucker and delve into his dealings. If he takes a shit, I want to know what colour it is.”
Lotus wrinkled her nose, “Seriously, Bás, do you have to be so gross?”
“Yes.” Bás crossed his arms over his chest and glanced a Val. “My wife likes my dirty side.”
Lotus slapped her hands over her ears. “Lalaalalala. I don’t want to hear about Mum and Dad banging.”
Watchdog smirked, feeling something loosen in his chest. This was comfort, this banter, Lotus referring to Val as Mum and Bás as Dad.
The room shifted then, the mood tilting. Bishop smirked, slow and wicked, leaning on his elbow. “Speaking of banging…” He cocked a brow. “Heard the walls upstairs had a bit of a workout.”
A low chuckle rolled around the table. Titan’s grin flashed, Hurricane huffed a laugh, and Duchess actually smirked.
Heat crawled up the back of Watchdog’s neck. He didn’t look up from the screen. “You lot need better hobbies.”
“Not a hobby,” Lotus said sweetly. “A professional interest. You debriefing Clara sounded… thorough.”
Valentina smacked her arm lightly, rolling her eyes. “Grow up.” But her lips twitched, too.
Watchdog shook his head, keeping his voice dry. “Not my fault this shit hole has paper-thin walls and you lot have overactive imaginations.”
Bishop leaned forward, a grin tugging at his mouth. “No imagination required, mate. It was high-definition sound.”
The table erupted in low laughter, warm and familiar. Watchdog let it roll over him, allowed himself the faintest twitch of a smile. For the first time in months, he felt something close to his old self, the banter, the ribbing, the family rhythm that anchored him as much as his machines did.
Bás let it play out for a moment, then cleared his throat, pulling them back on course. “All right. Jokes aside, Oliver’s underground. Which means he’ll surface only when it suits him. We need to know where. Duchess, you’ve still got MI5 strings?”
Duchess nodded crisply. “I’ll tug them. Quietly. He’ll burn contacts, but he can’t burn all of them.”
“Titan, you and Bein keep on the house when he finishes reconning the park. Bishop, Reaper, I want financials dug out. Oliver’s family, Clara’s family, everything.
Find out where the pressure points are. Hurricane, Snow, you’re on the friends and associates list. Dig into anyone who’s shown sudden wealth or movement. ”
“Copy that,” Hurricane said, already jotting down notes.
“And, Watchdog,” Bás said, his tone shifting, anchoring, “you keep your eyes on the feeds. Every camera, every chatter line, every shadow and whisper on the dark web. He pops up, I want to know before his arse hits a chair.”
Watchdog nodded once, precise. “Already done. I’ve tagged his biometrics across the City’s recognition systems. Even a glimpse, I’ll get it.
We should head home. This is going to be a marathon, not a sprint.
I’ll reach out to Jack and Zack, see if they can help with Lena and the parents’ surveillance. ”
The certainty in his own voice surprised him. But it was true.
Bás lifted his chin in agreement. “I agree. Let’s wrap this up and get back to Wales.”
For the first time since Oliver had walked up bold as brass and shoved a gun into Clara’s ribs, he felt in control again.
Monty stirred at his feet, nose twitching, and Scout’s tail thudded against the floor. The dogs always knew when tension had broken. He let his hand drop to scratch Monty’s ears, the simple rhythm grounding him.
His gaze flicked up. Around the table, his team was watching him, some still smirking, others simply steady. Not pitying. Not doubting. Just watching.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like the weak link.
The meeting broke up with a shuffle of chairs and low chatter. Assignments were already being discussed in pairs and trios as people peeled off, Titan murmuring to Snow, Duchess bent over her phone.
Watchdog powered down the screen feeds but left the processes running. Nothing would slip past him tonight. Not Oliver. Not the shadow in the car.
He lingered a beat longer, Monty pressing against his leg, Scout sprawled across his boots. Comfort. Guard. Family. He gave them both a final scratch before straightening, the air in his chest lighter than it had been in days.
The corridor upstairs was hushed. The stairs creaked the same way they had earlier, the second and fourth steps the loudest. His mind ticked through the details automatically, but his body carried him forward without conscious thought.
He paused at her door. The wood was thin, painted over too many times. He pressed his palm against it, just for a second, before easing it open.
Clara lay curled on the bed, duvet tugged high, one hand resting on the pillow near her face. Her hair spilled across the sheets, dark against the white, and her lips were parted on soft, even breaths. The lamp still glowed faintly, throwing golden light across her skin.
She hadn’t waited for the food. Exhaustion had claimed her first.
Something eased in him at the sight. Relief. Protectiveness. A bone-deep calm he hadn’t felt in years.
He stepped closer, just far enough to see her chest rise and fall. Then he eased the lamp off, leaving her in soft shadow, and pulled the door closed with care.
Back in the hall, he leaned against the wall, exhaling. His team had their plan. Oliver would resurface. But for now, Clara was safe, and that was enough to keep him moving.