AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Yes, you're not dreaming. You can hurl things at me, I won't mind. LOL. Here's the second to the last chapter. This is probably the hardest chapter for me to write. I did my best. Thank you for sticking up with me!

Note the ship jargons in this one:

bulkhead- walls in a ship

Deck- flooring in a ship

port-window in a boat/ship

moor- a parked boat/ship

The PRIDE and the PACK

"The lion may be more powerful,

but the wolf does not perform in the circus.

Claire looked over her shoulder and wrinkled her nose at him — her way of acting cute. He chuckled and crossed his arms in front of him. He watched as she disappeared into the ladies' bathroom.

Owen felt the warmth of his smile envelop him like sunshine.

Wherever did he find the courage to tell her how he feels?

But truth was, Owen couldn't remember the words he said. He figured he sounded like a total idiot- a cheesy, fumbling idiot. He wanted to curl to a ball and jump off a cliff.

But heaven forbid...

She had no right to look that carefree and beautiful today. The radiant glow in her face made his heart ache and thrum with a explosive beat. She had outshone everything and everyone today. Her smile and eyes mirrored the happiness enshrouding him. She was too bright, it was almost blinding to stare.

He couldn't remember the last time — or if there ever was such a time— he said I love you to someone. Or even felt nervous around a woman. His palms were sweaty, his lungs felt like they were running out of oxygen. Self-consciousnessness wasn't something he was. He was Owen Grady, after all. He was always sure of himself. His words were always flawless. But he was stammering like a grade-schooler in the principal's office.

Owen had always been careful around Claire. He didn't want to push her into anything she wasn't prepared for. After that bar talk with Ron Dearing, he finally understood what made her the way that she was. The cocoon she always tried to hide herself in, was her only protection. She grew up without healthy, loving relationships. Claire must have been questioning his motives, or the integrity of it all.

Hence, he took cautious steps. Still, he revelled in it, like the only kid allowed in a huge playground. The arguments and deathly glares were incomparable to making up and her sweet, loud laugh. The littlest things that she does could eradicate any personal and professional afflictions.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Without looking at the caller ID, he answered. His voice reflecting the happiness within.

"Hello."

"It's been a perfect day, hasn't it, Grady?"

And as quick as that, his day turned sour.

Owen stopped leaning on the tree he was using as his shade. He put his phone away from his ear to glance at the ID.

It was an unregistered number.

Owen felt a drip of cold sweat on his nape as he scan his surroundings.

"Who is this?"

"Oh. Don't spoil the fun yet." The man in the phone continued in that husky undertone.

"What do you want?"

A sinister laugh vibrated in his speakers, making Owen shake his fist in anger. "Ha! I've heard of your promptness. Feels good to experience it firsthand. God, I'm having goosebumps right now."

"Don't fuck with me." He hissed, eyeing the entrance for Claire, vigilant.

"But it's so much fun. I usually let my flunkies to do this sort of thing, but I've gotta see it for myself."

"I swear to God, if you-"

"If I what?" The man sniggered before his tone turned bleak. "Careful with your words, Grady. Don't wanna ruin such a perfect day. Especially that sexy blue dress of hers."

He stilled even more. Owen inhaled a deep, agonising breath. "Tell me what you want."

"Brennan, you fucking son of a bitch." He yelled, infuriated. His voice shook the empty, dark berth. "You fucking traitor!"

Brennan ignored him as the voice on the radio cackled, "Yeah, he's awake, alright."

Even with the blood pounding in his ears, Owen listened to the conversation. Owen studied Brennan's face in the dark, looking for a slight indication, empathy, anything. But he sounded intimidated.

"What would do you want me to do?" Brennan mouthed on the speaker, and still avoiding his glare.

"Where are the boys?"

"They're en route."

"Good. Call Gasmen, ask him to give me an update on the ground."

"Copy, sir."

His mind was whirling into a dozen realisations. Brennan was in the Devil's Road case. He could easily wipe or steal the CCTV footages.

Then there the bombing at the basement. It made sense that for months, Brennan has been going in and out of the office, giving him apt time to study the building. And Joe, for God's sake. Joe. They fucking shot him!

His wrists chafed against the metal cuffs. He was seething with fury. "You fucking assholes!"

The voice on the radio howled with laughter. "I'll see you soon, Mr. Grady."

And the line went dead.

Owen narrowed his eyes on Brennan. "That's how it is huh? You piece of shit! You were on this from the very beginning!"

Brennan didn't say anything, his dark expression unreadable. He walked towards the small room to where Owen could now see Simon.

Brennan laid a hand on Simon's shoulders and gently pulled him, so the old man was leaning on the wall.

"Don't touch him." Owen spat. "Let Simon go. He had nothing to do with this. You have me."

Billy gave him an irritated scowl. "You're not in control here, Grady."

"Then who the fuck is? Your friend on the phone? Who's been stalking me like he has a fucking high school crush?"

The floorboards creaked as Brennan made his way towards him. The single beam of light from the port window allowed Owen to see Brennan's sneer. He crouched down from where Owen was sitting on the floor.

"Doesn't feel good, does it Grady? Feels weird not be the one calling the shots, eh?"

Owen equaled him with a smug snigger of his own. "At least, I knew how it felt."

His smile fell as a harsh glint masked Brennan's eyes.

Bingo.

With a patronising tone, he added, "Can you say the same for yourself, Brennan? Tell me, how does it feel to be a pup-"

He would've ducked if he could. But Brennan swung his arm back in a flurry of motion. And his balled fist connected with his jaw. The adrenaline, anger and shock hindered the sharp pain. He shook his head and mocked, "Did I hit a nerve, Brennan?"

With a clenched jaw, Brennan stood up and kicked him in the stomach. Owen doubled forward, coughing.

Simon, who he figured was sitting on the farthest corner of the cabin, cried, "Owen!"

Owen chuckled, his tone challenging and demeaning. "Must be an advantage to you, eh? I bet you can't deck me without these cuffs."

"You think you're so tough, Grady…" his voice was pensive, envious. It triggered another smile from Owen. "-The wonder boy who grew up to have everything he ever wanted… But we're about to see how brave you are."

Owen craned his neck for a much cleverer comeback but Brennan hit him again. He felt the blow this time, his eyes blurring on the impact. "That was for the day at the hospital, you fucking dick."

Brennan stormed off, closing the watertight hatch behind him.

"Geez, kid. Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He replied and grounded his teeth, his head starting to swim into focus again.

"Do you have a death wish?"

Owen leaned back his head on the pole tethering him, a smirk on his busted lip.

"You're smiling, aren't you?" Simon scoffed. "Was there a point for letting him beat you up like that?"

His grin became wider. "Of course."

"What?"

"I'm getting to know our enemies."

"There's something familiar about him, though." Simon mused. "I didn't get a good look on his face, but he sounded familiar. What did you say his name was?"

Owen spat the blood from his lip. "Billy. William Brennan. He's a fucking FBI agent."

"No. No, that's not it."

Owen frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I've met him before. I know it."

Ten hours missing

Voices.

Voice everywhere.

And tapping. Endless tapping.

Claire stirred from her dreamless sleep. The soft sheets that smelt like him; a laden of his lemon aftershave and fresh Downy detergent. She sighed, allowing the scent to cocoon her in a myriad of comfort.

Claire sat up with a start.

Two things hit her at once.

One, she didn't remember how she came up here.

And two, and the most crucial of it was, he isn't here.

A surge of fearful thoughts came invading her senses again. As a form of habit, her hand slid across the vacant, cold place that was his side, seeking comfort.

To her relief, the pounding migraine from earlier was gone. She looked at the the glass of water on the bedside table and had to scowl. The water looked cloudy, as if something dissolved in it. Claire fought the anger rising on her throat and staggered out of bed.

The room felt bleak, empty, alien without him. Though the sun (visible in his windows) was at its peak, a shiver ran through her. And before she knew it, she was traipsing to his closet.

Her fingers felt the rows of clothes in an absent-minded manner, loving how the room smelt of him. Claire stopped and unhooked a plaid dark blue sweater. She put it on over her dress shirt, allowing the fabric to cover her entire frame.

For a moment, she wanted to scream, break down and throw a chair out the window — not necessarily in that order.

Claire was angry… and scared. She never knew it was possible to feel two overbearing emotions at the same time. She wrapped her arms around herself, allowing herself a moment to succumb to despair. Because once downstairs, she could never allow herself to be.

She shook her head, as if to get rid of the negative thoughts. Claire went downstairs to where she knew all the actions were.

It was strange to see the once empty and private walls swarming with people. The blabber continued as she stepped into the room.

The dining table resembled a feast, only if that feast was laptops, papers, empty coffee cups, and wires. Three large monitors lined the center of the table. It almost looked like a barrier, dividing the two teams apart.

There were ten people in the room. Zia who was leaning over the curly-haired dude Claire met a while ago. Franklin Webb, the IT specialist, fresh out of the NAVY due to his broken knee. Claire recognised Bobby, the guy she punched a few days ago. He was sitting opposite them, frowning over his own computer. The other guy, Francis, the other security detail Owen appointed to her. Standing by the windows overlooking the greenhouse was Barry. He was talking to the phone, looking as frantic as she was. Lowery sat at the center of the table, a coffee cup hovering over his lips. His laptop was open along with sheets of paper scattered about the table. Sitting next to him was Zara, who was also holding papers of her own. They looked like they were comparing data. She recognised Martha and Andrew, from the IT department. They're huddled together with their own equipment. And Emma, who came out from the powder room. It wasn't part of the company protocol to help with the investigations. But everybody wanted to offer their contributions. Each screen was being monitored by the best in the company.

Zara stood up and walked to her, concern clouding her face. "How are you feeling, boss?"

"The next time, somebody slipped a medicine to my drink, I'm gonna lose it." she threatened.

Zara blushed a light shade of pink. "Sorry."

She gave an understanding nod. She'll admit that the few hours of sleep wasn't all bad. "Did you contact Donna?"

"Yes. They finished the press briefing twenty minutes ago."

"How are they handling it?"

"It's…" Zara hesitated, "manageable."

"How's the new security? Did they arrive there yet?" She looked at Emma who fumbled with her notes before giving it to her.

"Ah yes. I already forwarded your authorisation to HR. Here are the resume in case you want to check. They employed five security personnels from the agency you picked."

"Okay. Well done. I want everyone out the building at exactly six pm."

Her assistants nodded before they dispersed. Claire walked towards Zia and Franklin's station.

Zia and the team didn't take the death threats lightly. And as the logical, counteractive measure they saw fit was to put a tracker in Owen's belongings. Lowery installed a high-militay grade tracker on Owen's laptop a few weeks prior. Zia did the same to his car. Owen wasn't aware that they did. That's how they found out that Owen left the townhouse and drove to Pier 39 at quarter to four.

Zia, Barry and Lowery were hanging out at the Den when an alarm beeped from his phone. Thinking that it was one of those "we'll watch the sunrise" dates, they waited before following him. They weren't out of their car yet when Barry sprung open the passenger door and ran towards the vacant car. The driver's door was still open, the engine was still running. They called the authorities and left Lowery on the scene. Zia and Barry went to check on her at the townhouse and the trackers they installed. They found his phone in the bedroom but his laptop was gone.

"Any luck?" Claire asked them, peering over their screen.

Zia shook her head and folded her arms in front of her. "I'm hopeful that they would activate the GPS on his laptop anytime soon."

She nodded, and observed the x-rayed map of United States. Tiny dots of green and thin lines connecting each state. On the left side of the screen were map coordinates. On the left were transport surveillance in San Francisco. Claire felt the sunken feeling again, these were the kind of scenarios she could only see from movies. It was more horrifying and incomparable in real life. They were sitting ducks until Owen's abductors accessed his laptop.

"Are we sure that they will?" Lowery asked. "I'm not trying to be skeptical. We've been looking at this for hours. What if I didn't install it correctly?"

"You did and they will." Franklin chimed in, optimistic. "If they so much as check the time, it would send a conservative signal from their location to here." he tapped on his monitor.

"But will they know that we're tracking it?"

Franklin's cheerfulness didn't dim. "Unless one of them was in the military, but I doubt it. I doubt it."

She nodded again. "Do we have news on Simon?"

Claire circled the table and went to where Martha, Andrew and Lowery were. "Mrs. Masrani is out of the hospital. She's okay, a bit frazzled but okay."

As if Owen missing wasn't hard enough for everyone, Claire learned of Simon's abduction a few hours ago. Only four hours after Owen.

According to the Mrs. Masrani, she and Simon were in their Los Angeles home. Simon went out to get takeouts. Masked men broke into her home while Simon was still out. They tied her to the chair, gagged her and kept asking for a box. Simon arrived at the scene and they knocked him out cold before taking him.

"Is Mina with her already?" Claire asked, thinking of Simon's daughter.

"Yes. Along with her husband. They took her in the meantime while police are searching the house. The kidnappers appeared not to have taken anything."

"Is it possible to have someone watch them too?" Claire looked at Emma who was already on her phone. "Give them two guys."

The young woman nodded. "I'm on it, Claire."

"Martha, how are we doing?" She crouched down at the blue screen of alphanumerical numbers.

"Yeah. We asked the banks to freeze Owen's bank accounts and assets to avoid suspicious transfers. We also doubled the security measures for all company files in case someone tries to hack it."

"That's great." Claire complimented, patting them on the shoulders.

"Oh and Claire," Lowery called, reaching a folder on the console table. "An officer dropped this an hour ago."

"What am I looking at?" Claire queried, flipping through the pages.

"Owen's car had no prints except for his, no sign of damage in the exterior and interior. Although, they did found a speck of dried blood on the pavement. But authorities couldn't use it for evidence since it's a parking lot."

"Emma, Kindly call Brennan or Walters for me—"

And then she heard it.

A subtle ping, it was almost impossible to detect. Franklin raised his arms in the air, as if in celebration. "Got him."

Claire's heart soared as she practically leaped towards Franklin. And everyone followed and crowded over.

"It's working!" Franklin exclaimed again.

A red dot was circling the map, right over Hunter's Point.

And as soon as everyone got their confirmation, they stumbled back to their desks in a hurry. There was a nervous excitement in the room.

Zia reached for her phone lying in the middle of the mess and speed dialled a number. "Brennan, he's at Blandy street, near Hunter's point. Don't ask me why I know! Get a team over there! Now!"

Claire closed her eyes in relief.

We're coming, Owen.

18 hours missing

They left the window uncovered, allowing a single ray of afternoon sunlight in the space. He stretched his neck up, trying to catch a glimpse of, well, anything. But the cuffs were biting his wrists, rubbing the skin raw. He fell back and sighed in defeat. At the far end of the cabin, Simon was still sleeping, his legs stretched before him. Or resting his eyes, Owen doesn't know.

A barrel-chested goon with an army-haircut went awry was seating on a plastic chair by the hatch. His head was leaning on the steel wall of the cabin. The goon was wearing his wristwatch. It was a gift from his commanding officer and his sailor friends for his 29th birthday. Owen had been hearing its endless ticking for what he assumed was eight hours now. The guy let out a loud snore as he lolled his head to the side. A small automatic pistol, holstered on his ankle boots.

Simon hurled and coughed across him, making Owen snapped his eyes on him.

"You okay?" He asked.

Simon looked up, his face green with nausea. "Never did like cruise rides. And the food service here is ghastly terrible. It's a bad first impression." he joked.

Owen cracked a small smile in his attempt.

They docked a few hours ago. Owen could tell from the steady sway of the wooden deck he was sitting on. Where? He had no idea but judging from the sun ray pouring from the port, they couldn't have gotten out of the bay that far yet. A foreboding sense in his stomach envelop him. They didn't know who their captives or their motives yet. The only person they saw was the drooling Johnny Bravo and Billy Brennan.

Brennan. The thought of him walking free made his blood gurgle with fury. Everything was making sense now. Of course, Tenebris Bellator needed inside men within the Bureau. And being one of top agents in the FBI, Brennan had to be one of their most prized possession. How many times did they twist the law? How many criminals have they set free? Owen's body shook with rage.

He remembered the day at the hospital—when he saw Brennan and his filthy paws on Claire. Owen had never been more determined to break someone's bones before. Now, it was the only thing keeping him awake.

The churning sound of the watertight hatch startled Johnny Bravo. He sprung in his seat and straightened up as the hatch revealed a Middle-eastern guy and a man in dreadlocks. Both men were wearing luxurious ironed suits and backpacks.

The middle-eastern guy clapped Johnny Bravo on the shoulder and chuckled. He spoke with a flawless New Jersey accent, "You look scared for a minute there, Sulli. Inspecting someone else?"

Sulli, alias Johnny Bravo, shrugged off his hand. "Fuck off, Levi."

Dreadlocks, who looked more serious than his partner proceeded to the table on the corner. A few feet from where he was sitting. Owen watched as the one called Levi patted the bulkhead for the light switch.

"And… let there be… light!" He exclaimed before a glare of light radiated the entire deck.

Owen squinted as his eyes adjust to the brightness. He took in his surroundings.

They were in a ship alright— an empty crew quarters without the beds and interior. The only furniture in the room was the study desk and the plastic chair where Johnny Bravo sat.

Dreadlocks didn't glanced at him but went on to work. He dragged the chair by the hatch and pulled out two laptops from his bag. It took Owen a moment to notice that one was his.

Johnny Bravo clicked the hatch closed again and stood guard. Levi leaned on the table, peering at him. Owen fixed his stare, at the same time, engraving their faces in his memory. Levi had jet-black hair, strong jaw, dark eyes and looked no more than twenty-five. He had a distinguishable chip in his front left teeth. The other guy, who he hadn't learnt his name yet, had blonde dreadlocks for his hair. A bonnet covered the top part of his head. He had a tattoo of an anchor on his neck, beside his Adam's apple. Black stencils covered the entirety of his hands.

Levi's lips quirked upwards, the gap between his front teeth. "Mr. Owen Grady. Pleasure to finally meet you. I heard wonderful things."

Dreadlocks clicked his tongue, snapped his fingers and pointed to the laptop. "Levi, quit playing around and get to work."

"I have to say…" Levi started again, excitement in his voice. "The defence system in your building is impeccable. It was nothing we've ever seen… Or hacked into."

Owen gnashed his teeth, his expression dissolving into pure hatred. "You killed Joe?"

"Whoa! Whoa!" Levi raised his hands in defensive move. "I didn't kill anybody. I didn't pull the trigger. Tell them, Ricky."

"He didn't kill anybody." Ricky aka Dreadlocks conciliated. He didn't sound he was lying. "They leave the big jobs to bigger boys."

Levi opened his hands. "See? Although, I must say, it was pretty heroic death. So, cheer up."

Dreadlocks groaned with impatience . "Would you please get to work? I don't want to be any longer than I need to."

Levi cleared his throat before turning his torso to grab the laptop behind him.

"I'm assuming this has a password, Mr. Grady." Levi flipped him the laptop and showed the opening screen with the dialog box. "Would you do me the honours?"

"Sure. Type 'Fuck me'. All Caps, two words with exclamation point in the end." Owen loured, his lips copying his captor's sardonic smile.

"Alright."

Without warning, Johnny Bravo walked across the deck and reached Simon. He slapped him across the face with brutal force, over and over again. Simons pained yelps rang in his ears.

"No! No! Stop! STOP!"

Johnny Bravo sneered at him and held Simon's bruised face by his sweat-matted hair.

"Now, let's try this again. The password, Mr. Grady?" Levi asked again.

"No, Owen. Don't." Simon rasped, his lip swollen, his cheeks turning a dark shade of purple.

He looked away. Resisting them would only hurt more. They must have kidnapped Simon too so they'll have someone to torture. They wanted him to comply and give them the information they needed.

"Moonflower. Capital M. One word."

Levi's smile was like a cheshire cat. "See? That wasn't so bad. Was it, Mr. Grady."

Levi typed the password, whilst holding the laptop with one hand and still facing him.

"And we're in! Wow, wow wow! Mr. Grady They told us you were rich. But not this rich! Look at this Ricky boy, he has more dough than the fucking people in the planet."

When the voice on the phone told him to bring out his laptop at Pier 39 he knew what it meant. Money. His laptop held security codes and complete access to all his bank accounts. Including his companies'.

But three things happened at once.

One, Levi's happy whistling stopped. His tanned face, paled like a sheet of paper. "Wh-what? The fuck is this, Grady? Why is it locking me out?"

Two, A phone rang in the room— a text alert tone on Dreadlock's phone. He was silent while he read it but then he stood up, knocking the chair backwards.

Three, heavy footsteps echoed in the passageway. The dog lock turned clockwise in a hurried attempt. The hatch hit the bulkhead with a loud clang. And Brennan's face came into view. Behind him were two other men. Brennan was angry, sweaty… and nervous.

What's happening?

Owen glanced back at Simon who was as bewildered as him.

Is someone coming to rescue them?

Brennan hauled him up by the collar of his shirt. The handcuffs restrained him back and down. The metal dug on his already scraped skin. He winced from the pain.

Brennan shouted, "What did you fucking do, Grady? !" And he punched him in the stomach. Owen fell down, face and body forward.

"It's the laptop! It's rigged. Some kind of Navy tech." Dreadlocks hissed as he and Levi assembled their things.

"Why didn't you nerds check it? Throw that fucking laptop away, Morrison!"

From the floor, Owen saw Levi opened the port. A rush of warm, salty air flowed right in before Levi blocked it and chucked his laptop to the open sea.

"Un-cuff them! We've got three minutes before the San Francisco Police gets here! Go!"

One of the men rested a boot on his spine, pushing him down. His right cheek pressed further against the wooden deck. Another man was doing the same to Simon.

"Let Simon go, Brennan! He had nothing to do with this!" He reasoned, as they strapped his hands again.

"Get them to the back! NOW! Or we'll all be dead!"

Brennan sounded scared. Owen took a quick look around. And every Johnny Bravo and the techs had the same frantic expression. This justified the idea that whoever they were working for, whoever he was, they're afraid of him.

Two men grabbed him by either elbows and pulled him in the narrow passageway. He thrashed around, elbowed Johnny Bravo II, trying to break free. They moved in a hurry. They had Simon was grumbling behind him.

At the harbour, the briny wind sprayed on his face, he could almost taste its saltiness on his tongue. The sun illuminated the waves, the rays scattering over its deep turquoise color. For the briefest moment, Owen felt at peace. Until, he heard police sirens wail in the distance and a blanket fell over his eyes. The dark, thick fabric impaired him, his shouts muffled.

"Go! Go! Go!" Brennan kept shouting.

The dock creaked under their combined weights. One of the men grabbed his elbow and pushed him over. For a minute, his feet felt nothing but air and he had a strange notion that he's sent over a cliff. But his feet landed with a loud thud on something steel and damp.

Another boat.

He felt and heard Simon's grunts next to him. Behind them, one of the men shouted a racial slur to Simon. "-Or I'll blow your brains out!

Owen whipped around and kicked behind him. His foot landed on someone's muscle. He heard the body drop and cursed at him. Owen took his chance and even though he still couldn't see anything, he kicked and kicked. His shoes landed on the body, head, feet, blow after blow. He heard the men coming for him but he didn't stop.

Cold air swooped behind him before he felt the harsh sting of electricity from his hip. Now, Owen had only been tasered two times. One was when he, Lowery and Barry were drunk. Lowery fired at him, thinking it wouldn't work. The second and the last time was in training.

Fifty-thousand volts rocked his body, the agonised scream finally emerged from his chest. His knees gave up and he fell on his side.

"Owen! Are you okay?" He heard Simon shrieked near him. "Owen!

A few more feet landed on the deck before Owen felt the rumble of the engine beneath them. Simon's body rolled over, knocking him, as the vessel began to sail. He felt the dampness wetting through his lower leg. Voices were above them, harsh whispers he could not make out.

"Owen, are you… Owen, talk to me! Are you okay?!"

"Never better, uncle." He groaned, lying on his back.

"Take them to the rendezvous point. Check the both of them for anymore wires. I'll meet you there!" Brennan ordered.

Owen heard the engine spurred a louder sound and the swoosh of the water vibrated beneath them.

They're moving farther away.

26 hours missing

The highway was empty, except for the Ducati zapping through it.

He was racing through misty dawn. The moon was a massive, glowing white orb at the peak of the mountains. He revved his throttle through ancestral trees and nocturnal animals.

The Ducati was his most prized possession— the only good thing he ever gave himself from all this. Even with the thick leather jacket, the strong gusty air permeated through him.

His phone buzzed on the holder. He glanced at the Caller ID on the dashboard and slowed down.

Billy clicked and his partner's voice rang through the headset under his helmet. "Where are you?"

"Surveillance." He lied.

It was funny how after everything he's done, it sometimes still felt weird to lie. "Have you interviewed witnesses?" He still asked despite knowing the answer.

"There aren't any."

He acted displeased. "It's the middle of the day! How can there not be witnesses?"

Walters grieved a heavy sigh instead of replying. Billy felt a little sorry for the man. He imagined him, his hands pulling at his hair.

At first, it was funny watching his new partner aggravated and chased his own tail around. Billy watched him go after the littlest details. Walters was good. He went close by a fraction but Billy managed to evade him before he could piece everything together. He didn't feel good about this mission. Honestly, he didn't feel good about any of this.

"Look, check the traffic in and out from 5 am to 3 pm. There has to be something."

"Alright."

"In the meantime, Keep an eye on Rodriguez." He took the bend in the road, loving the sharp wind blowing his face. He'd take his motorcycle over any expensive boat any day.

"Why?"

His partner, always asking the wrong questions. I couldn't tell you, Walters. "Don't know. I have a hunch."

"Okay. I gotta go, Sarge's here."

"Yeah. Call me."

His finger hovered over the button when Eric added, "Oh, and Claire Dearing's looking for you."

Brennan floundered, even for a bit. "What? Why?"

"Don't know." His partner sounded delighted. "But I need you to get over here. She's starting to scare me."

There wasn't a law preventing agents to joke during an assignment.

"More than you already were?"

"Fuck you, Brennan." He faked a laugh before he hanging up.

He chuckled as his phone rang again. Billy didn't bother looking at the called ID.

His joke got caught in his throat when he heard the flat, cold voice in the speaker. "Are you on your way?"

He crouched down and saw the outline of the villa standing on the plateau from two kilometres away. "10 minutes, sir."

"Good. Morrison and Cross?"

"They came with Masrani and Grady. They arrived more than two hours ago."

"Alright. Keep them there. I'll be there in thirty minutes. Don't let them mess up this time." And he ended the call.

Billy gulped a nervous lump in his throat and stepped on the pedal. That doesn't sound good.

Like a well functioning government, every mafia has a leader. In Tenebris Bellator, they're called as the Principal.

Billy was a low-paid messenger boy in Boston when he came upon a wounded man in an abandoned alley. That man turned out to be the right-hand of the former Principal. In return for saving his life, the man offered him money and recruited him to the Commission. For the first time in his life, Billy wasn't only making ends meet. He was earning money more than he could count. He owed them a great deal. If it wasn't for them, he would be rotting in his childhood home with his starving family.

Though, at what cost? He had asked himself.

When he had enough money, he joined the Academy. And as a result, his position in the Commission went up. From being the unwanted neophyte, he became their top insider; he became important to them. It was nice to feel important. Although he had injured many on the job, Billy never killed anyone, he was against it. Though, he knew it doesn't make up with the fact that he was helping all these criminals.

Billy liked the former Principal. For starters, he was a nice, old man. But his involvement in illegal gambling and narcotics made him a dangerous man. A very dangerous man. He died of heart attack several years ago.

Billy thought of leaving the Commission. But the framed picture of sisters in Boston University was holding him back. What would happen to them if he bailed?

Over the years, he managed to relocate his parents and other siblings to other safe locations. He would do anything to protect them from the shit show he got himself stuck with. Billy knew what they were capable of. They had tentacles stretching far wide across oceans. He had come so close, he couldn't go back. Not now.

Billy never trusted anyone in the Commission. He kept his distance and only present himself when necessary.

After the former Principal died, it became harder for him to quit. The man who proceeded him was much younger, much more cautious, and much, much worse.

The new Principal was a business prowess. He was a powerful man. He's the head of many prostitution rings, drug dens and bootlegging dealerships. He was the Owen Grady of the Underworld. Billy only saw him twice in his life but was always participative in the business. The Principal would sometimes call him every now and then to check. He was a hands-on man.

The Principal was a perfectionist, a narcissist who doesn't do well with others' mistakes. He was very much mindful of that. Good examples were Kavesh, the newbie they sent for the kidnapping attempt in Devil's Road. And Kowalski, the guy near Claire's apartment. Both guys were eager to impress, and by so doing, afforded mistakes the Principal could not let pass.

Billy was grateful that he wasn't in charge but he still felt the panic when he received the call from Zia. He almost fell off the taffrails of the Panthera, a dry cargo ship owned by their employer. He never ran so fast his entire life. Grady looked clueless so he must have no idea. He couldn't imagine what would've happened if their kingpin arrived on the scene. He'd get away with it for sure, given his connections within the bureau himself but still. Nobody messes with the Principal's plans.

Billy pulled at the iron-wrought fence of the manor. Sculpted at the center of the gate was a lion's head, its mouth bared. Under the two lampposts, stood two guards. Billy showed his badge and they let him in. The manor was big enough to fit three apartment buildings. He had only been here once, back when they were planning the bomb attack on Grady Corp. He parked the bike and got the Walgreens from the tail bag.

Mac and Spalko stood by the entrance, playing cards. The heavy smell of booze and cigarettes was surrounding them. Brennan gave them a quick nod before walking past the archway and the huge parlour. The staircase leading to the wine cellar was made out of stone, like half of the house. The wine cellar's lights were off but he could make out the figures shackled on the opposite columns. Billy turned the switch and blinding lights burst in the room. The cellar was wide as it was long. Aside from a few barrels and the small rack under the stairs, the shelves lining the stoned walls were empty. He switched the lights.

He glanced at Grady who was, unsurprisingly, returning his stare. Simon Masrani had his eyes closed. His shackled hands crossed over his stomach, his legs outstretched. He noted the pale complexion from when he last saw him. Billy was familiar with the symptoms.

Aside from the purple bruise on Simon's face, both gentlemen looked okay. Their clothes, matted with sweat, were filthy from the tugboat. But otherwise, they're fine.

Billy opened the bag and produced two water bottles and a box of Dramamine. He placed one water bottle a good distance from Grady before he walked to Masrani. He nudged him with the bottle in his hand. The man jerked away on instinct.

"Here." He offered him the bottle and a tablet. "Don't worry. They're for motion sickness."

The old man continued gawking at him. Billy popped two tablets himself and swallowed. He showed his tongue to Simon, letting him know that it's not what he thought it was.

"Not much of a seafarer myself." He added in a consoling tone. Billy knew he could get shot for this. "Take it. It won't make you sleepy, I promise. "

Masrani glanced behind his shoulder— at Owen— for permission. Billy didn't follow his eyes. But he guessed Grady thought it's okay because Masrani downed two tablets and drank the water he gave him. He gave him a grateful nod. "Thank you."

Billy stood and sat on one of the stair steps overlooking them. Grady still hasn't touched his bottle, to which he had no problem with. He could die of thirst, for all Billy cared.

"I know you." Masrani muttered, making him raise his eyes back at him.

Billy felt uneasy. The man's round eyes penetrated him, as if he's seeing through the horrible things he did.

"You're the nurse. One of Alan's nurses—"

He tried to maintain a straight face as he stared back at the man who revealed him.

"—Your hair was brown back then and you wore glasses."

Across him, Grady leaned forward. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Masrani kept staring at him. "He took care of your father, Owen. I remember him because he kept interrupting our conversation to give him medicine. Alan liked him. He even offered to pay for his med school, should he want."

"And he was fooling him." Owen remarked with a greater venom in his voice. Angry was an understatement from the murderous expression on his face. "You deceive a dying man for money."

"I didn't accept it." He defended and focused on the chipped stone on the floor. The guilt and shame creeping from his stomach was throwing him off guard. "I was a nurse years before I got into... this, before the agency."

Due to his healthcare background, the Principal appointed the task to Billy. The Principal never bothered to use force on Alan since he was already terminal. Billy thought the Principal was pretty reasonable when he wanted to. Billy became his duty caretaker for almost eight weeks. When they got the confirmation and information they needed, he resigned from his post.

Billy had to agree that the world lost a great man when Alan Grady died. He wasn't there when it happened (thank God). But Billy remembered him. He was kind, gentle and wise, way beyond his years.

"I never gave your dad the wrong medications. If that's what you're worried about, Grady, I assure you of that." He defended again and added in a good-hearted tone. "He was a good man."

"Alan told me that you were too." Simon noted with a hint of disappointment.

Billy almost said "I'm sorry." because he truly was. Instead, he hung his head in humiliation. He tried to square his gratitude to Alan Grady by sending those "written warnings" to his son. Even though he hated Owen Grady, Billy meant no harm with those death threats.

He was trying to warn Owen of an attack and possible kidnap scenarios. But nobody needs to know that. Especially the Commission, who just assumed that someone else was after Alan Grady's only son. As soon as the Principal realized that, he proceeded with his plan.

The heavy double doors upstairs opened and then closed with an intimidating bang. He could almost see Mac and Spalko shuffling in their seats to look presentable. Though the Principal had no problem with with drugs and alcohol, he doesn't like smoke that much. His lungs were weak, he told them, so he banned smoke in any of his place.

He heard stomping and shouting and bodies dropping. Brennan stood and fetch the empty water bottle from Simon. He threw the garbage behind an empty barrel, out of sight.

"If you're gonna drink that later, hide it for now." He said to Grady who was still glowering at him. "Oh for fuck's sake, Grady." He threw the bottle behind another barrel as the door to the cellar opened.

Billy leaned on the staircase to get out of their way. Two suit-dressed men descended. The one wearing glasses has a silly smirk on his face. The man behind him was the burly man himself. Both men were wearing a three piece suit worth of a whole year's rent. Behind them were their "muscles". Billy never bothered with the names of the bodyguards. For him, they were Tweedle Dick and Tweedle Dumb. Trailing after them, like scared puppies were Levi Morrison and Richard Cross. The IT geeks.

"Brennan." Elijah Mills nodded at him.

"Mills."

"Looking… good." Mills faked another smile.

Billy inwardly rolled his eyes. Mills was a recruit by the Principal himself long before Grady busted his misdeeds. Grady's estranged employees, Nedry and Sere had no idea that they're directing the stolen money to the Commission's construction funds. But both employees were clean and were not part of the Commission. Though, they want to be.

Too many months, he's been covering for this asshole. He was silently wishing Grady was loose so he could punch Mills and do them both a favour.

"My, my, my!" Mills started. "Look who we have here?"

"Two men you could never be." Billy saw how Grady's eyes turned into raging storms. "We missed you at the annual board's meeting, Mills."

Mills' shit-eating grin faded. His jaw and fists, clenched.

Grady taunted, baring his teeth in a cringe. "Tsk. My bad. I forgot you're blacklisted. What's up loser?"

Billy would've laughed at Mills' pissed reaction, if it wasn't for the man behind him.

"Mr. Owen Grady." The Principal greeted with an enthusiastic voice he rarely has. "I heard many things."

A pronounced frown form over Grady's cool features. "You- you're the… You're the guy from Westgate—"

"Westgate and Pollard, San Jose, right!" The Principal continued with a giddy tone. "Vic Hoskins, at your service." The Principal mocked a bow.

"What do you want with me?"

"Look at this guy! He is so like you said, Eli!" Hoskins laughed and slapped Mills on the stomach. Mills laughed, pretending not to be anything but hurt. "Straight to the point. I appreciate that! I appreciate that!"

The Principal walked closer to Owen and rested his hands on his knees. Grady didn't appreciate the "talking down". He raised his head, squaring the Principal's gaze. Billy felt the lopsided smirk twisting in his cheek.

Grady's got balls. I'll give him that.

"I got no problems with you, kid." He admitted before he turned on his heel and looked down at Masrani.

"Simon, my old friend."

"Hoskins."

"You know him?" Grady butted in.

"He's a former board member and business partner of Alan."

"Yeah. We had good years together." Hoskins stood between the two prisoners. "Before your old man decided to get a little smarter and started sleuthing."

"Yeah, because you're a launderer and a thief! A loan shark! You lend illegal money and charges over the top interests!"

The list is a hundred times longer than that, Billy thought.

"You're a disgrace, Hoskins! Alan sent him to prison countless of times."

"And yet, here I remain. Can't say the same to him."

Grady struggled against his cuffs to reach the man standing before him. "You don't have the right to talk about my father."

At the corner of his eyes, he noticed Tweedle Dumb touching his gun.

The Principal laughed at Grady.

"You remind me of him, kid… Now," he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "I took the liberty of opening the safety deposit box he left you. I hope you don't mind."

"What are you talking about?"

Billy saw how the remaining color in Masrani's face faded. "How did you get that?!"

"Don't worry, my friend. Your wife is with your daughter. No harm will come to her or them… Yet."

The Principal turned to Grady again. "Do you know what this is?"

"You told me it's been safe guarded by Simon since my dad died, so how the fuck should I know?"

Billy gave a quiet chuckle and shook his head. No one, not even Mills could have the nerve to talk to their leader like that. He's starting too root for ballsy Grady.

The Principal appeared amused. "Months before your pops died, he gave something to Simon for safekeeping. A flash drive I'm sure, containing the location of where my money is. Thanks to Mr. Brennan over there—" the Principal pointed to him. "We would never have this intel."

He opened his hand and Morrison tripped himself before giving him the velvet box.

"Problem is, the drive's heavy with encrypted passwords. There are only three password attempts before the drive burns itself and I lose all my money. My tech guys, lead by Mr. Morrison, x-rayed it and found two small bomb units wired inside the case. Dissecting the drive will trigger it, spilling acid, losing all data. And I lose my money. I couldn't risked it… And we don't have any more spare time for tricks, do we Mr. Morrison?"

"Ye- yes." stammered Levi.

Without taking his eyes off Grady, Hoskins took out his gun and fired two shots. Closed range. Billy had barely a minute to deflect. The gun went past flesh and ricocheted off the brick walls.

Mills jumped. Tweedle Dick and Tweedle Dumb looked unfazed. Ricky fell on his knees, whimpering. Masrani vomited. Grady didn't move, he stared wide eyed, and appeared more attentive now.

Morrison had no chance. He fell in a bloody slump on the floor. Dead, his lifeless eyes (or what remains of it) staring back at Grady.

"You see, Mr. Grady. I don't forget. I don't like mistakes. I'm a very impatient man." Hoskins wiped the splattered blood on his gun on his dark pants. "So, let's make this simple, gentlemen. Help us with the password. It's as easy as that."

"I don't know it." Grady replied, his voice firm.

"Why should I believe a man trained to endure torture?"

"Because it's the truth."

"Can I give you another motivation?" He cocked the handgun and pointed it to Masrani. Billy held his tongue from saying something.

Billy's eyes diverted back and forth at the two. He was sure, Hoskins would pull the trigger.

Don't be a dick, Grady. Don't be a dick. He's gonna kill you. Both of you. Brennan tried telling through his eyes. But Grady remained resolute, his voice stern. "I don't know it."

The Principal's eyes locked with Grady in a challenging stare down. "I'm prepared to believe you any minute now."

Masrani interfered, "Neither of us—"

Before Masrani could finish his sentence, a loud gunshot pealed the room.

The bullet landed two feet above the man's head. The brick from where the bullet lodged was smoking.

Simon was shaking as Grady yelled in desperation. "I don't know it!"

"Take a very good guess. I know you're a smart guy. And Mr. Cross will be with you." Hoskins turned his head to a still-shaking Ricky. "Mr. Cross?"

Ricky took a cautious step forward, avoiding the puddle of blood and set the laptop on the wet bar at the end of the room. Hoskins handed him the box. "I don't need to remind you the consequences too, do I, Mr. Cross?

The man gulped before he set out his equipment. Billy went around a column to check. Ricky's hands were trembling as he inserted it to the hub. The screen turned blue and a dialog box opened. "We're good."

"You first, Mr. Grady." The Principal announced, the gun still in his hand.

Billy heard him take a deep breath. "Echo, Lima, Lima, India, Echo, Two, Ten, Sixty-seven. All caps and no spaces."

And so Ricky typed,

ELLIE21067

Everyone seemed to hold their breath in anticipation.

The prompt window showed up. Ricky released a shaky sigh. "It's not correct."

"Again. Simon. Take your luckiest guess."

Simon was quiet for a few seconds before, "Whiskey. With the 1 replacing the 'I'. Capital first letter."

He saw the beads of sweat forming on Ricky's forehead as he typed,

Wh1skey

Billy closed his eyes, wishing for everyone's sakes that Masrani is correct.

The laptop made an error sound.

Hoskins clicked his tongue in impatience.

At the opposite end of the room, Mills stood up from his seat. Every person in the room snapped their heads at him. Mills unbuttoned his blazer and wiped a hand on his lower lip, a glass of red wine between his fingers.

"You have a suggestion, Eli?"

"Do you mind?"

"Go ahead."

Mills' voice, now confident, echoed through the hall. "Owen was in the NAVY for a couple of years. He couldn't have known what his father was up to. Simon, I mean, sure. He was Alan Grady's strictest confidant. But neither of them worked for him."

Billy saw how Grady's cool, suave facade finally dissolved into pure horror. "No!" He struggled with his cuffs, clanging them on the tiles. He tried to get up but the wires wrapped around his ankles prevented him to do so. "No! You bastard!"

Mills dramatic pauses made Billy wanna hit him himself. Mills seemed to relish the attention as well as Grady's restlessness.

"Neither of these men worked out his schedules, got him coffees, reminded him of deadlines. If there's one person in this whole damn world that knows Alan Grady better than these two men, it's her."

Billy straightened up, realising what Mills was saying.

"What do you mean?" the Principal asked.

"I think it's time for Miss Claire Dearing to join the fucking party."

She couldn't sleep.

She was lying on her side, one palm underneath her cheek. The stuff toy's beady eyes stared back at her. It was a much better company than her thoughts. She burrowed her nose on the collar of his shirt. Claire felt the tight ball lodged in the center of her chest again. She hugged the plush wolf to her chest. The stuff toy Owen got for her gave little comfort, but it was comfort nonetheless.

Whatever havoc they did with the ventilation system, they fixed it. She was back to her apartment despite her team's protests. She wanted to have, feel that sense of control again and she thought being here would somehow restore it. It didn't.

They almost had him. Claire arrived some ten minutes later with Zia and Lowery. The site was cramming with the entire San Francisco Police Department. But no Owen. Not even a trace of him. They were back to zero. Wheatley, the chief of police ordered to detain the cargo ship and search for evidence.

They found it.

At the bottom of the bay.

Owen's laptop.

TV reports were also claiming that Owen's abduction was also linked with Simon's. It was plausible. As two key players of the Grady group of companies, Owen and Simon were their most prominent assets.

Claire rose from the bed. There's no use of skulking around when there's so much at stake. She slapped her cheeks, willing her psyche to "snap out of it" and switched on her laptop. For what seemed like hours, she sorted our her emails. She reviewed performance and accounting sheets and signed renewal contacts. The distraction was ineffective.

She closed her laptop and leaned her chair back. She found herself staring at the wide windows in her home office.

It was almost unfair that the world seemed unaffected by her problems. Claire drew a long breath before she finally stood up and prepped for a numbing run.

Claire lifted the shirt over her head, her heart lingering for the smell. She fetch her tights, donned a sports jacket and her trusted Nikes. After she had worn out twenty of them for the last year, Claire decided to invest on a study pair of shoes. As the saying goes, Good shoes take you to good places.

Before going out the door, she sent a quick reassuring text to Zia. As part of security measures, she, or Barry will come over to drive her to the office. Claire, tired of arguing back, went with it.

I'm going out for a run. Be back in 45.

She offered a small smile to the bellboy waiting for her at the reception. Bobby and Francis, her appointed detail were nowhere to be seen. They usually were dozing off in the lobby or at the car parked by the curb.

Half the stores in her street were still close. Claire paused for a quick stretch, adjusted her watch and double knotted her laces.

And she ran.

The air, humid and sticky, was making her hair slap across her cheeks. She pumped her legs, her arms swinging beside her. Her clothes, slick with perspiration, clung to her skin as she broke into a series of sprints. Her shoes were kissing the pavement with hard, grueling pace. The sounds, re-echoing the rapid beats of her chest. Her ponytail swayed, slapping her flushed cheeks. Claire ran and ran, like waves chasing the shoreline, like a prey seeking for refuge.

Twenty minutes in.

I'm gonna find you, Owen.

Claire ran faster. As quick, hard and far as her legs could carry her. She turned around corners; avoided the usual crowded streets and streetlights. Her lungs heaved for, sweet, warm air. But she didn't stop. She willed her body not to stop. Her thoughts, occupied by a name— the only motivation she needed.

The sky was starting to open up. The sun was pretty but was emitting everything but warmth. She could see the eastern shoreline and lengthened her strides even more. Her watch was beeping so hard, warning her she was going too fast. Her shoes landed on the track, her throat, rasped and dry. She could feel her legs shake, her heart monitor beeping at an alarming rate.

She ordered her body to move as she passed other runners.

The American flag at the end of the trail served as her finish line. She could feel her lungs screaming with each footfall. Her sweaty fists tightened as she moved onward. Forward. Never stopping. She heard other runners behind her, their puffs of breath matching her own.

But at the corner of her eye, A runner running from the other direction, fell down with a loud cry. The man was rolling on the sand as he clutched his toes and shin.

Due to her motion, she went past him.

The man yelped again in pain.

Claire slowed down and hurried over.

"Hey! Are you okay?" She panted, kneeling over the man. His face contorted into agony.

"I think, I twisted my heel." He replied with a foreign accent.

Claire hid her frown. She was never a professional runner. But she knew that he couldn't have twisted his heel from the stride he had before he fell down. A few people approached them and started asking questions as well.

"You okay?"

"What happened?"

As polite as she could, she asked the man to remove his shoe to check. From behind her, fellow runner reached for the workout towel around his neck. Claire opened her hand to receive it, "Tha-"

But another fellow runner, grabbed the back of her head in a choking move. He covered her nose with the towel. For a moment, the panic set in. But Claire fought and wracked her brain on the right defence technique. But the odour of something putrid

overpowered her senses. Claire tried to claw her nails on the guy behind her, thrashed her arm and hit the groin.

Claire tried to grasp the remaining consciousness in her brain. She tried to make out the faces of her assailants. She could have sworn one of them was familiar.

The darkness was closing in fast.

Nausea crept up towards her stomach, to her throat.

The man hardened his hand, her head was swirling. She felt her legs and arms give up and everything went to black.

Owen hung his head, the past hours finally taking its toll on him. Opposite him was Simon who was sleeping on his back.

They removed the cuffs and ropes tied around them earlier too. They moved them to a basement cell a couple of hours ago.

From what he heard from the other men, the "Principal" (as they like to call him) was very particular about smell. And the foul smell of the middle-eastern guy, whose face he blew up was making him gag.

They're afraid of him. He could finally conclude.

Whoever this Hoskins was, everybody seemed to draw back in fear of him. Even Mills who was trying his best not to be.

He hated this. He hated being as helpless as he was. He just wished Zia was doing the thing he implicitly told her to do:

Keep an eye on Claire. Do everything you can to know where she is at all times.

Guided by the light from the small window on the top wall, he inspected the empty wine barrels, he stood up. He examined the room.

Two rows lined each wall of were wine barrels. This wine cellar was smaller from where they were a couple of hours ago. Owen followed the rows and noticed a powder residue on the croze of one barrel. Though he had an idea what it was, he dipped his pink finger on it and raise it up to window, to get a better look at it.

He heard a car pull up outside, the asphalt rubbing against the tires in an annoying screech. He wiped the cobwebs on the dusty window and saw the figures went out the car. Men, dressed in running attire…and a woman. Owen felt the hair rise from his neck when he recognised her. A terrifying realisation dawned on him.

He pulled himself up by the railings on the window and swore, waking Simon. "No! No! God damn it!"

He jumped down and ran a frustrating hand on his hair. He overturned a barrel and used it as a step ladder. He gazed out the window again, his face pressed on the bars, like a prisoner. The men and woman outside were oblivious to his outrage. Simon hurried beside him, craning his neck up. "Owen! What's wrong?"

A man, in white basketball shorts, opened the back door and carried an unconscious body. Her vibrant golden red hair recognisable to him even from the other part of the world.

"God damn it! No! Claire!" He felt hot, angry tears form behind his eyes but he held on, his arms still holding him up.

"Where should we put her?"

"Upstairs." said the traitor. "But let's check her first. Make sure she doesn't have a wire on her."

The man carrying Claire, gleamed with malice, "I'll be happy to do that."

"No! Don't touch her! Don't touch her!" He screamed, almost begging.

The woman rolled her eyes. "I will do it."

The door from the cell burst open. "What the hell is going on?"

"Hey! Come down from there, Grady!"

That was the breaking point of his patience.

The group outside disappeared from his view as they went in the house. And Owen felt ballistic. He never wanted to murder anyone before. He let go of the railings and when he turned around, he punched the guy coming after him. So hard, he heard the bones in his face crack. The man fell down, crying in pain. Blinded by betrayal, rage and everything ugly in between, he beat him again and again.

He managed to knock the one more guard, not a scratch on him. But four more men came through. Simon tried to help but Johnny Bravo held him back and punched his stomach. Owen threw his fists. He landed punch after punch but they outnumbered him. They ganged up on him down and kicked him. He felt a rib crack. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming.

Simon yelled, pleading. "No! Stop it!"

Her head felt like lead. Her neck sore. Her throat was dry and there was still that foul smell tarrying under her nose. Something uncomfortable was holding her hands together behind her back. She groaned as she opened her eyes. Her lap and Nike shoes came into view. She felt the acidic taste in her mouth and she gagged.

"Bout time you wake up, boss."

She looked up, her eyes widening. "You." Claire murmured in disbelief.

The woman, sniggered.

"YOU!" Claire shrieked.

Emma Tate, her assistant removed the scrunchy holding her from coiled hair together.

"I trusted you!"

"Your biggest mistake, really."

One thing was going through her head. Emma was in the room when they finally tracked Owen's laptop. That's why they didn't reach him in time!

"You told them! You warned them! You warned them about the tracker! That's why they got away! How could you?!"

"How could I not?" Her young assistant retorted. "I've waited too long for this. The corporate bitch queen bowing at my feet."

Claire remained silent, her eyes shooting daggers in her direction. Her assistant was far from the persona she was at work. Emma was much more confident now, if not, complacent. It made her look unpredictable thus, more dangerous.

"Why would you do this? We were good to you! Owen was good to you!" Claire emphasised, the betrayal and anger pumping her drugged brain.

Emma shrugged and sat on the table behind her. "For my own satisfaction..." Her fingers playing with the chain around her neck. "And a bit of revenge for a beloved brother who fell into depression after you got the job meant for him."

"What do you mean?"

Emma chuckled, "How did you do it?" She curled a finger on her mouth, feigning curiosity. "How did you seduce and trick an old man in giving you the job?"

And then it hit her, like a veil being lifted over her eyes.

She saw the HR room again, all these men mocking her for being the only woman in the room. One man was silent. He was sitting alone at the corner of the room, looking all kinds of nervous. She remembered him because of the checkered purple tie he was wearing. He had the same shade of brown skin as Emma. Same forehead and coiled hair.

"Ah. You do remember him. Did you also know that he killed himself five months after that?"

She didn't know what to say. "Emma, I-"

She didn't see it coming. The once kind, loyal and sweet Emma she knew from the office, slapped her. Her eyes watered from the impact. Something sharp caught her lip before Claire tasted blood. She hadn't turn her head back yet when the door opened.

"I missed something, didn't I?" Came the familiar voice. A voice that once sent a cold shiver down her spine.

"Hello, my darling Claire." Elijah Mills beamed. His glasses reflecting the lights from the ceiling, but Claire could note the smug glint in his eyes. "How are you?"

She found her voice, thick with hatred and disgust. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Oh, how I've missed you." Mills laughed and she felt her anger ascend to dangerous heights.

"You'll never get away with this, Mills."

"Oh, but we already have."

And as if on cue, the door swung open. Claire felt her shoulders slackened. As if the last hope was finally lost and irrecoverable. Because, staring back at her, and looking as resigned as she was, was Billy Brennan.

Owen was right. They couldn't trust anybody.

That's why he was first in the scene, why he looked so off when they arrived at the pier. She felt hot, red anger boil in her veins. Her voice dropped to a seething whisper.

"Where's Owen?"

Billy avoided her eyes and cut the rope holding her to the pole. Her hands remained zip tied. Claire didn't take her eyes off him.

"Oh yeah! I almost forgot, you two..." Mills gestured with his hands, amused. "You're together. How… cliche."

Billy turned to Emma and said, "He wants her in the library."

Emma gripped her upper arm, hoicking her up with force. Brennan walked behind them, silent, and Mills, was on his phone, behind him. She didn't struggle but instead, take the scene around her. They were in a house— a manor— and guessing from the senile stench in the air, she could assume that it wasn't much habited. They went downstairs and lining the walls were modern paintings.

Claire tried not to look observant and maintained a straight face. She won't look weak, not in front of them. Claire held her head, and squared her shoulders. They ambled along the hallway at the side of the house. The dark wallpapers cleared up and opened into a series of columns and a victorian archway. The glass walls in on the west side of the house reflected the dark verdant forest outside. They entered the large archway and into a roomful of books, that reached up to the ceiling. Expensive chandeliers dangled from the high ceiling.

Claire saw the man on leaning on the huge timber desk. His scruffy grey beard and penetrating glare, were all too familiar.

He was the man at the party talking to her while she was waiting for Owen.

"Miss Dearing. How wonderful to see you." He was leaning against the table, a wine glass in hand. He put his glass down when she approached. "I never got to introduce myself at the party. I'm sorry for that."

Mills tugged her forward that she almost stumbled. And this time, she resisted. "Don't touch me, you son of a bitch. I can walk by myself."

She walked towards him but maintained a good distance. A three seater leather sofa and large coffee table separating them.

The man before him laughed, his hand touching his protruding belly. "Let me introduce myself properly. I'm Vic Ho-"

"Where's Owen and Simon?" She asked, her voice like steel and returned the man's nonchalant stare.

The man's lips crinkled into a conceited smile. He nodded at Brennan who left the room without another word.

"Would you like a drink?"

"I'll have one. This is gonna be fun." Mills chirped. He went to the decanter to pour himself a shot. His nasty eyes making her all kinds of uncomfortable. "Mr. Hoskins has French Beaujolais. Isn't that your favourite, sweetie?"

She was so tempted to retort with another degrading comment when she heard shuffling in the room.

Her mask slipped and a horrified gasp came out her lips when they dragged bruised Simon and Owen into the room. The bulky men behind them push them so that they were kneeling on the carpet. Their hands, tied behind their back. Both men were disheveled. Her heart dropped to her shoes as her gaze stayed on Owen.

The long sleeved shirt and pants she last saw him wearing was dirty with grime. He has bruised cheeks and cuts on his eyebrows and lips. His hair, matted with sweat and something wet… Please, don't be blood.

For a moment he looked relieved to see her.

Until he wasn't.

The soft hazel green eyes darkened and dilated with beastly rage.

"Did you hit her?" He accused Mills, rising from his knees. The man behind him pulled him back but Owen cussed at him, unwavering, "Fuck off! Did you hit her?!"

Mills didn't correct him. Instead, Claire felt his arm around her shoulders, His face was so close to hers, she could feel his breath. As an instinct, Claire swatted him with her body but his hand closed on the round part of shoulder, holding her down. Bourbon and Mills were not a good combination. The bad memories came flooding in.

"I would never. Would I, sweetheart?" He took a long sip from his glass. His lips, only a hair from her cheeks. She pinched her lips together, trying to look anything but affected.

"One way or another Mills, I'm gonna free of these cuffs and I'm gonna break your fucking face." Owen threatened.

Mills was gaslighting him. "I remember good times, such good times. But, do tell me, is she still stiff? She's always been a stiff. I mean, I wouldn't blame you if you thought she was... mediocre. Just as you can't blame me for needing pleasure somewhere else, right?"

She wanted to vomit.

"I'm gonna kill you."

Claire shivered, partly from Mills' hands on her body, but also by the low timbre of Owen's voice.

He meant it.

"Children, while this has been so amusing to me, let's get down to business."

Mills stepped away from her as he poured himself another glass. Emma walked towards her and seized her arm, forcing her forward. To the man at the center, to Hoskins.

Hoskins placed his glass on the desk behind him and grabbed a laptop… and a velvet box. He showed it to her, and Claire's eyes widened in recognition. It didn't go unnoticed by the man in front of her.

"I knew you'll recognise this."

"What did I tell you, huh?" Mills bragged.

The velvet box was Alan's.

Claire knew that inside it held two, top grade thumb drives she gave him as a gift. One drive has a black matte protective case and one was silver. Alan refrained from hiring another assistant after she left. She persuaded him to secure his documents, personal and business accounts in a place he could easily access. So, Claire put everything he might need on the black thumb drive. She set everything for him. Both thumb drives have passwords on them to prevent anyone — but Alan and her — to access it. She left the silver one empty.

But how did these men get it? The last time she saw it was on Alan's office shelf before she left for France.

The answer coughed from behind her.

Simon. That's why they needed Simon. To open these.

These men must have also assumed that Owen's laptop has the files they're looking for. But it didn't.

Hoskins revealed the box and Claire had to hide her surprise and relief.

Before she left, she was a hundred percent sure that the cushion had two slots reserved for each drive. Claire gave a quick mental thank you to Simon for changing the cushion. He made it look like it only held one, not two.

Whatever it was on that silver one, it was safe and protected, far from the greedy hands of these criminals.

Her relief was short-lived though, because they got the right one. The black flash drive held Alan's business dealings and accounts. She remembered putting all of them there.

"We need a password, Miss Dearing. We tried it with these two gentlemen... And I know for a fact that you know what the damage will be in case we didn't get the correct one."

The drives were strictly designed for security. She knew the repercussions. They did two attempts which meant they only have one more left before it disintegrate itself. Claire was starting to hate Alan's need for dramatic effects. Still, she resisted.

"What makes you think I do?"

"Oh, I don't think, I know."

"I don't-" Claire's speech ended when Hoskins removed a gun from his back pocket. He waved it to her face and Claire fought the fear rising from her skin.

"Consider this motivation, Miss Dearing."

Hoskins nodded and two men grabbed Owen and hurled him on a chair by the glass window. They cuffed him on the wooden arms. His seat was facing them and Claire felt the air knocked off of her as Hoskins raised his gun…. and pointed it at Owen.

"I don't like the smell of blood on the carpet." He said, leveling her eyes with his dark, maniacal pupils. "When I shoot, and it's gonna hit him I'm sure, he'll fall down three storeys... What's it gonna be, Miss Dearing? I'm an impatient man and I get tired quickly."

There wasn't any fear in Owen's face and posture, only wrath and fury. Still, it didn't pacify her.

"I'm sorry." She heard herself say, her teary eyes boring into Owen's. "I'm so sorry."

Everything was suddenly happening in slow motion. The sounds around her deadened.

Hoskins' smile and heavy perfume insinuating the vomit rising from her stomach.

Her legs felt like jelly, her wrists were raw with flesh wounds from the zip ties.

Her breathing slowed as she felt Owen's eyes never leaving hers. She wanted everything to get over with. She wanted them safe. Simon said something but she didn't hear him. Hoskins moved to make room for her, his gun still at hand.

For a moment, everything is still. The room was watching her every move.

She raised her hand, her finger hovering over the first letter when she heard a subtle tap hitting the glass.

A sharp whoosh of wind.

The glass pane behind them, cracked.

Something heavy fell to the ground.

What was that? Was her last thought before everything went from shit to worst.

Every other person in the room ducked for cover. The sporadic rat-tat-tat froze her.

Claire had never heard a gun fired before. What she assumed was something like the action movies or those video games Zach was always playing with. It was nothing like that. The fear and the shock narrowly registered with her as the walls around them shattered. She couldn't hear past the ringing in her ears and her own heart beat.

Somebody tackled her to the ground as a round of gunfire rung, breaking the glass hiding them from the world. Panic, curses, and heavy ammo wailed around her.

"Stay down!" She heard Brennan shout at her, the sofa protecting them from the heavy rounds. Brennan's hand was on her back, keeping her down. The butt of his pistol was cold against her. Her eyes immediately found Owen who toppled his chair to the ground, squirming to break free of his cuffs.

The bullets ricocheted off the cushion and furnishings that it came out as dull thumps. Beside her, Hoskins was covering his head and shouting at his men. The men finally retaliated with their own gunfire.

Brennan's hands left her as he fired his own gun. She crawled to Owen.

"Go! Go! Go!" She heard someone roared, before she felt someone grabbing her shoes, and pulled her up.

"No! No! Get off of me!"

She resisted, kicked and threw her fists. But tough hands grabbed her hair, yanking back with force and she screamed in torture.

"Come here!" Hoskins snarled as three of his men surrounded him.

She looked at Owen, her lips trembling. He was still on the ground, struggling to escape his confines. "No! Claire!"

"The back! To the back!" One of the goons screamed. They were pushing, pulling her, their rough hands marking her pale skin. In front of her was Hoskins, his head ducked, gun hoisted up.

The heavy fire echoed as they ran through the house. One of the men hauled her to his shoulder, and she pounded her fists on his back. He pushed her inside the car but not before her shins hit the metal step of the back seat.

"Let go! Let go!" She squalled, trying to wrench her hands free.

Hoskins was now red in the face, but, unharmed. He extended his arm and tugged her hair again. "You're coming with me, you bitch!"

The other men behind her grabbed her legs and push her inside. One man sat beside her. The other was on the passenger seat, and the last one, on the driver's seat. The car roared to life.

No, no.

She was screaming, kicking, slamming her bound fists on them anywhere she could reach. "Let me go!"

"Stop it! Stop it!" Hoskins grabbed both her arms.

Claire glared at him and spat.

Hoskins was stunned. Claire saw a vein popping out of his forehead. He swung the back of his hand and whacked her right across the face. So violent, she felt her brain moved from her cranium. Her vision was getting foggy, blackness was creeping from the side of her eyes.

Owen.

He had no time to think who was firing at them; whether they were his or Hoskins he didn't know. Owen couldn't afford the time to think through it, not when he's seeing Hoskins whisked Claire away.

"No! Claire!"

Around him, the ruckus continued and he struggled. He was banging his arms on the wood, trying to break it so he could free his hands.

"Come on! Come on!"

The ceiling blurred above him as someone grabbed the foot of the chair. Whoever it was, was dragging him towards safety of the couch, shielding them from the bullets.

He was not gonna die like this; helpless and tied like a fucking slave. Owen thrusted his feet towards who was dragging him.

"Stop it Grady!"

"You traitor! Get your hands off me!" He growled at Brennan who was kneeling beside him.

"Shut the hell up, Grady!" Brennan iterated, inserting a key to both his cuffs.

Owen was still as Brennan helped him. Wait, What?

Once free, he held his wrists, massaging the blood back to them. He tried to process what Brennan was doing.

"You fucking kicked me."

"I had to. They were listening."

Over a day ago, he was beating him to the ground, now, he was shoving Owen a glock from his pocket. Followed by a full round of magazine and a set of keys. Owen didn't need to be told what to do. He loaded the gun and waited for the instructions.

Around them, the rapidity of the shots, halted. Then heavy silence returned, allowing him but a moment to center himself. They had their back to the sofa. Beside him, Brennan was checking his bullets.

He looked around, trying to find an escape route. Glass, furniture, statues and books, were everywhere. Empty shells of bullets scattered the ground. And bodies. Owen peeked and checked on Simon who was lying on his stomach, his eyes, scrunched close.

There were two Johnny Bravos on either side of him lying next to him, dead. He could see the soles of Mills' shoes as crawled away from sight, with him was the real traitor, Emma.

He tried to get up but Brennan roughly pulled him down, just as bullet wheezed past where his head was. Brennan peered through the other side of the couch. More Johnny Bravo were coming up the other door to the library. And Brennan was shooting at them.

But they're cornered. The shells bounced off the sofa like a hailstorm.

Owen heft his own gun in position, aiming. He drew out a sharp breath, reacquainting himself on the feel of the cold metal between his finger.

A bald man sneaked and emerged from their left. His gun, ready to fire.

"Get back!" Owen shouted at Brennan, backing him on the sofa with his arm. Owen pointed his gun but before he could fire, a swift whoosh of wind passed by his ears. He would know that silent M40 rifle pew anywhere. The bald man staggered, a hand on his neck and fell down.

Then it was quiet again.

They both turned their heads on the dark pines outside. Someone was unmistakably perched up there, fighting with them. A tiny flashlight blinked from one of the ancient trees. It didn't take him more than a second to decipher that it was a morse code for "Ready to Party". It was the signal he and his troops used to have.

"Your pals have the greatest timing ever." Brennan reached out and stole the rifle off the dead guy's body. He checked the magazine before passing it to him.

"Listen to me. Their getaway car is a black jeep parked at the back. They're gonna use the straight path in the forest leading to the lake. Hoskins has a yacht. You better get to her before he gets to the yacht. My motorcycle's parked out front. You hear me, Grady?"

He nodded.

Brennan then gave him his earpiece. "Put this on, I'll patch this to them."

He hesitated. "Simon?"

"I'll get him to Rodriguez. Go! I'll explain later!"

Owen was running out of time. Every minute he's wasting was putting Claire in more danger. He had no choice but to trust Brennan.

He shuffled to his knees, put the radio on his right ear. He placed the rifle on his shoulder and hid the glock behind his pants.

He winced, clutching his ribs and kept running to the entrance of the house. From all this commotion, he almost forgot that he got beat up a few hours ago.

More guys were waiting for him at the porch, automatic weapons ready. And they fired.

"Fuck!" A bullet grazed his arm and he ducked behind the columns.

A few feet away, next to the bushes of ivy was the black Ducati. A full-throated rumble rushed through the bushes. The black jeep was almost invisible against the shadowed trees and landscape.

He fired and managed to hit three guys before the remaining men pointed their weapons to the forest. Owen snuck a look over his shoulder and saw the bodies fell one by one before his eyes. The coast was finally clear.

Owen sprinted towards the vehicle, cursing at his damned ribs. He gripped the keys on his palms, holding on to it like it was his life.

The engine gave a beautiful, humming kick start. And soon he was riding through the jungle. The moon was bright, the wind was crisp like a cold water sliding down his throat. The jeep's headlights were still too far ahead but then disappeared.

They switched it off. They fucking switched it off!

Owen shifted his gears, his body rising up and down the uneven path.

The radio cracked in his ear, Owen pressed it.

"Make a right in one kilometre. It'll get you to her quicker." Zia's voice rung through the speaker.

"How-"

"Her shoes. They're linked to her running app. We took it from there."

"You are a fucking genius, Zia!" And turned his bike to the right. "Simon?"

"He's with us. He's okay. A couple of our guys are following you."

Twigs and fallen branches crunched beneath him, the bushes rustled beside him. The moonlight was illuminating everything but his track. He could smell the lake. He still couldn't see a single thing.

"Where is she?!"

"There's a downhill."

"How far?"

"If you turn on your left. But it's steep. You can't-"

He countersteered and braced himself on the slope. He clutched the handlebars as it shook out of control.

"Why did I bother?" Zia exasperated.

He passed by a stream, the rocks were making it more slippery. He was out of breath and his ribs felt like fire.

"How far!?"

"You're closing in on them from the left. One meter."

He stepped on the gas. And he caught it, a tiny reflection of the window. Someone was rolling it down… Then the muzzle of a handgun came out the window.

He heard Claire shout, "Owen!"

Owen swivelled the handlebars and banked a hard left, his knees skidding the earth. The bullets hit the nearby trees. The front tire spun a perfect circle as he pivoted right back.

He could hear the back up cars in the distance, their headlights offering a beam of light in the darkness.

The rifle slung over his shoulder was harder to navigate so he pulled the glock and aimed at the side mirrors.

He heard Claire screamed, "No! No! Don't hurt him!"

Owen pulled up behind them. The rear window opened and one Johnny Bravo lifted a rifle, a Mossberg 500.

Oh shit.

He tried his best to evade them but a bullet caught the front tire and the engine. The vehicle lurched and went berserk. Branches, saplings and leafy stems were starting to scrape his shirt and arms. Up ahead, he could see a large tree trunk, looming closer and closer.

"Fuck!"

He jumped out, rolling on the mushy earth. The Ducati crashed into the trunk and exploded.

"No! Owen! Fuck you! Get your hands off me!"

He picked up his gun, rose to his feet and ran. The bullets zapped past his head before it stopped. The jeep disappeared into the woods again.

"Zia! Where is she!"

"Continue straight ahead, they're pulling up at the lake."

Owen willed his body to move, run. One foot in front of the other. His arms were swinging in a perfect angles beside him. The pain from his ribs shot up, more excruciatingly this time. His shoulder stung from an unchecked wound. But his mind couldn't focus on himself.

Claire was still in danger and at the hands of the cruelest person he'd ever encountered. She was his goddamn universe and they'd have to break his legs first before he would stop.

Hence, he ran. Like the devil was after him. He ran like it was the only thing his body knew how to do. He was huffing and puffing, sweat and blood rolling over his eyes.

The lake came into view, a perfect reflection of the starry night above. The moon was shimmering its light over the calm waters. Sprouts of trees surround it, like a rigged cloak of dark canvass.

Claire was screaming, hitting Hoskins who had a vice-like grip on her. He was only a few distance away that he knew he could get a clean shot. He extended his rifle at the two remaining Johnny Bravos surveying the woods.

Perfect.

They couldn't see him.

He targeted the bloke who destroyed Brennan's bike. The rifle gave a quick, sharp sound. The bullet hit the spine and the man fell on his face. The other guy, a smaller guy, blindly fired through the woods. Sparks emitting from his gun. Owen slid down his tree and aimed. Owen exhaled a long breath before pulling the trigger. The bullets hit the man on the chest before he staggered backwards.

Owen rushed towards Hoskins who was dragging Claire by her hair. She was clawing his arms, kicking and punching her bound hands. Her screams were pumping the adrenaline in his system, fuelling his muscles. His blood was on fire. His heart was beating in his chest, pounding so hard as if, it was trying to get out. Out to her.

He gripped the gun on his hands, the only thing he felt connected to at that moment.

"You can't take him, Owen. Stay put!" Zia cried on his headset.

He couldn't.

"HOSKINS!"

His last guard turned and Owen didn't hesitate, he fired two shots; throat and legs. Despite the lack of light, the fear in Hoskins' eyes was visible. He immediately pulled Claire in front of him. He pulled down the hammer of his pistol and put the muzzle on Claire's reddening cheek.

His eyes met Claire's— bright and blown. Her lips, in a tight, solid line, her jaw clenched in determination.

"What are you gonna do about this, huh?" Hoskins hissed, wrapping his meaty hands on her delicate neck.

"Go, fuck yourself." She fumed before Hoskins tightened his hand around her neck. She raised her hands.

Owen raised his gun, his teeth bared in a threatening hiss. "Let her go. It's over."

"Why? Because of the agents surrounding this fucking mountain? Boy, you have no idea. I own the fucking FBI. I own the fucking police."

"That's what they made you think. This ends now, Hoskins."

Something flashed in Hoskins dark eyes and he dug the gun on Claire's cheeks. Claire clasped her hands on the bicep choking her. Though her features remained hard, Owen felt his heart explode as a tear rolled down her face.

Although futile, he repeated with gritted teeth. His finger never leaving the trigger. "Let her go. We can talk about this."

Behind Owen, the bushes fissled, footsteps echoed. He could hear the distant radios in each agent. Somebody pulled up beside him. Owen didn't bother to look.

Hoskins' harsh laugh echoed in the still country air and over the hills. "You sound like your dad… But we both know Gradys' are shit with their word. "

In his head, Owen was calculating the chances. With a handgun to her cheek, Hoskins other hand was closing on her neck. Shooting his hands was not an option, the bullet might still hit Claire.

Even with her petite frame, she was shielding Hoskins vital parts. He couldn't shoot him without Claire getting hurt. But if Hoskins so much as turned his head to the side, he could get a small chance. His biggest concern was Claire keeping as still as possible.

Hoskins was walking backwards. He was taking Claire closer and closer to the lavish yacht moored on the water. He followed them, the old, wooden wharf squeaked below them.

"Tell me, boy. What do you remember from the accident?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't know much about her. But people told me she was a very sweet woman. Always giving, always caring." They were closing the yacht at the end of the dock.

He felt the hair on his arms rise a terrible shiver. Owen faltered shouting, "What the hell are you talking about?!"

"In my defence, I didn't know my predecessor would take my word so seriously. I almost felt sorry when they told me you were in the car with her. But then I realized, it was a good thing. What are the odds that I get to kill Alan's wife and his legacy at the same time?"

The hot burning anger expanded in his chest, numbing the physical pain but instigating another. "You… you killed my mother? YOU KILLED MY MOTHER?!"

"Yeah, but you lived. Alan didn't know it was me, of course. I wouldn't have to do it but your father he still wouldn't leave me alone. So, I had to-"

And then something happened, too quick for both of them to comprehend. Hoskins hold must've loosened because Claire, slapped his gun hand. On instinct, Hoskins fired, and hit himself on the collarbone.

He wailed in pain but tried to grab Claire who crouched and struck him in the groin. She slid away from his grasp and fell on the water with a splash.

His queue.

And Owen didn't waste anymore second.

The bullets sputtered out of his raised gun in a series of blows. It hit the man on his hands, his shoulders, his stomach and chest. Owen poured the rage, frustration, his fear and anxiety as his hand, ever so steady, recoiled from the force. The man propelled backwards with each shot, his mouth in an angry snarl. Blood was soaking his perfect suit, the wounds, Owen was sure, were beyond repair. One last shot on his chest and the man fell on his back and moved no more.

The silence that ensued was more deafening than the gunfire that occurred.

His eyes went to the lake, right where Claire jumped and felt something wrong in an instant. She hadn't come out yet. But the ripples on the seemingly peaceful water were still there.

"Claire!"

From the distance, someone barked, "Bring the lights!"

But he was already on his feet and running. He threw the rifle and pistol and without hesitation, he plunged head first. The cold water seeped through his clothes, rendering him frozen for a millisecond. Even with the moonlight, everything was pitch black. It was almost impossible to gauge the depth of the lake.

He resurfaced above the water and hollered, "I NEED A FLARE!"

The dock was already swarming with men in full vest. A man was running towards him, red torch in hand. Owen took a gulp of air and dove again. Air bubbles rose to the surface as he cleaved the water with powerful strokes. He ignored the severe pain on his bleeding shoulder and ribs. Both of which were stinging from the salty water. The flare provided little light but he pursued his rescue.

A beam of light emanated from the surface, and Owen was finally able to see.

Not far ahead, may be five feet below was the seabed. He could make out the figure lying sideways on a nearby rock. Her arms and legs careened over the water, eye closed, body still. Blood was oozing from a wound on her pale neck.

Owen extended his hand to try and grab her arm. As soon as he caught her elbow, he threw the flare. He put both his arms under her armpits, planted his foot on the rock for the push and glided upwards.

With every willpower he could muster, he kicked and swept the water. He couldn't afford to panic now. But his shoulder felt livid and his sides like someone was dismembering it from his body.

Yet, he fought.

He fought with everything he got.

Like it was the only thing his body could ever do.

The surface was getting nearer.

Someone jumped to water to help them.

He reached them. He wanted to take Claire away from him.

But he held on to her.

His arms were squeezing her to him, offering warmth to her frozen limbs.

Please.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

I know, cliche amiright? I hope this chapter answers all the questions from the build up :D I also have never been to California so feel free to criticise the descriptions. :) I also uploaded this in a hurry so feel free to correct, shout, criticise, fight me. Like really. Get me.

ALSO, I've uploaded this on AO3. I've uploaded pictures in some of the chapters, just in case you wanna know. :)

Love you guys! I hope everyone is safe and healthy. - J