Alex paced the small room, his eyes darting to every corner as he frantically searched for any possible way out. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, his mind racing through escape plans that never made it past the first step. He paused in front of the window, glaring at it as if it would somehow grant him a solution. It was welded shut—solid metal bars crisscrossing the frame, reinforcing the already thick glass. Even if he could break it without alerting the entire compound, the drop to the ground outside would be risky at best.
He leaned closer, peering out. The security outside was tight—armed guards patrolled in regular intervals, their eyes scanning the area with military precision. The moment he even tried to climb out, they'd spot him. He imagined himself halfway through the window, his second foot still inside, when they'd descend on him like a pack of wolves. Not the ideal exit strategy.
With a frustrated sigh, Alex ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers grazed the wound on his head. The dull ache reminded him of just how trapped he was—not just physically, but in every other way. He moved away from the window, scanning the room again. The furniture was sparse, just a bed, a small table, and a chair. Nothing useful. No vents he could pry open, no hidden doors leading to freedom.
Alex had already rifled through every drawer in the room, finding nothing but empty spaces where, perhaps, he had hoped for a tool or a forgotten item that might aid his escape. But whoever had cleaned the room had been thorough—there wasn't a single object left behind. Frustration tightened in his chest, but he pushed it down, trying to stay focused.
He moved to the door, instinctively knowing it would be locked but still feeling the urge to check. The handle didn't budge, confirming what he already knew
He knelt down, peering through the keyhole, hoping for a glimpse of someone, something—anything. But the hallway beyond was deserted, eerily quiet.
Alex stayed there, crouched at the keyhole for several minutes, waiting for the familiar sound of footsteps or a shadow passing across the light. Nothing. His heart raced, straining against his bruised ribs with each beat. The silence outside was unsettling, and the stillness only heightened his nerves. He had expected more security, someone at least keeping an eye on him.
Finally, he stood up and knocked on the door, just once, listening intently for any response. Silence. Alex knocked again, harder this time, his knuckles rapping sharply against the wooden door. He pressed his ear against it, straining to catch even the faintest shuffle, a cough, or the click of footsteps. But there was only silence—an unsettling emptiness.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. No one was on the other side. No guards, no one monitoring his every move. That meant he had a chance. If he could get the door open, there might be a way to slip through the house unnoticed. The halls were empty, after all—or at least, they appeared to be.
The real challenge, though, was figuring out how to unlock it. He hadn't been left with much. A quick sweep of the room had revealed nothing useful—no pins, no tools, nothing that could even remotely serve as a makeshift lockpick.
Alex stood in front of the door, his mind racing through the options. He looked around the room once more, eyes darting from the empty drawers to the bedframe, the lamps, the few pieces of furniture. He needed something—anything—that could help him jimmy the lock.
His gaze landed on the nightstand, and he moved quickly, pulling open the drawer. Empty. Of course. But his eyes narrowed on the lamp beside it, specifically on the thin metal rod holding the lampshade in place. With a quiet determination, he twisted the rod, loosening it until it came free in his hand. It was flimsy but just long and thin enough to wedge into the lock.
He crouched by the door again, his hands steady as he carefully inserted the rod into the lock, feeling for the tumblers. This wasn't exactly a new skill for him. He had picked locks before. The challenge now was to stay calm and not let the ticking clock of potential discovery mess with his focus.
Alex's heart pounded in his chest as he worked the thin metal rod, twisting and turning with delicate precision. Each subtle shift in the lock felt like an eternity, but he kept his movements steady, his mind focused. His breathing slowed, and he tuned out the possibility of someone catching him. There was only the door, the lock, and the soft scraping sound as he maneuvered the makeshift tool.
Finally, after what felt like hours, there was a faint click.
Alex barely had time to react as the door swung open unexpectedly. He stumbled backward, hitting the floor hard in a frantic attempt to escape whatever—or whoever—was coming through. His heart raced as his hands scrambled for balance, the thin rod clattering uselessly beside him.
Looking up, he saw General Sarov standing in the doorway, his imposing figure framed by the light from the hall. The smirk on Sarov's face was infuriatingly calm, as if he had been expecting this all along.
"Going somewhere, Alex?" Sarov asked, his tone dripping with amusement. He held the door open with one hand, watching Alex with a look that suggested he had all the time in the world.
Alex's mind raced. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temple, but he kept his face as neutral as possible, trying not to give away the panic tightening in his chest. Sarov didn't seem angry—just smug, which might be worse.
Alex stared up at Sarov, feeling the weight of the general's imposing presence as he towered over him. For a second, Alex was frozen, his mind scrambling for some sort of plan. But Sarov wasn't moving to drag him out or punish him—he merely watched, as if amused by Alex's failed attempt.
"Come, Alex," Sarov said, stepping back and gesturing for him to get up. "I want to show you around." His voice was calm, but there was a subtle command behind the invitation, leaving Alex with little choice.
Slowly, Alex stood, brushing off his clothes with a practiced casualness that belied the tension thrumming through his body. He was still sizing up his surroundings, looking for any opportunity. But Sarov's eyes never left him, like a predator observing its prey, patiently waiting for the right moment to strike.
Alex stared up at Sarov, feeling the weight of the general's imposing presence as he towered over him. For a second, Alex was frozen, his mind scrambling for some sort of plan. But Sarov wasn't moving to drag him out or punish him—he merely watched, as if amused by Alex's failed attempt.
Sarov led Alex outside, the cool sea air hitting his face in sharp contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the house. Alex inhaled deeply, momentarily relieved by the fresh air, though his mind remained alert, searching for any signs of a possible escape route. His eyes swept over the landscape, catching sight of the pier in the distance—the place where he had nearly drowned. A shiver ran down his spine at the memory, but fortunately, Sarov turned in the opposite direction, guiding him away from the water.
They walked in silence, Sarov seemingly content to let Alex take in his surroundings. The estate was sprawling, with lush greenery and towering cliffs that dropped into the sea. Everything seemed calculated, as if it had been designed to feel both isolated and inescapable.
Maybe Sarov wanted to prove a point, to show Alex just how inescapable this place truly was—isolated, surrounded by the unforgiving ocean, and with no obvious way out. Every step seemed to lead deeper into his carefully constructed trap. Eventually, they reached a stone bench overlooking the cliffs, the sea crashing against the rocks below. Sarov sat down with a sigh, his every movement deliberate, as if this moment was as much for Alex's understanding as it was for his own comfort.
He gestured for Alex to sit beside him, but Alex hesitated. The silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. Sarov didn't speak right away, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if weighing his thoughts before breaking the quiet.
Alex finally sat down, his mind still racing for a way out, but the imposing figure of the General sitting next to him made the weight of his situation sink in even further.
The sea breeze carried a cold edge as Sarov began speaking, his voice almost too casual for the weight of his words. "You know, Alex, this island used to be the home of dozens of slaves," he said, his gaze drifting out toward the water. "Many of them tried to escape, of course, but they all fell victim to the sea. And those caught before they succeeded..." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air like a guillotine. "They were whipped. Severely."
The subtle threat didn't escape Alex. He shifted uncomfortably but held Sarov's gaze, refusing to flinch. "So you bought the island and freed them all?" he asked, his voice dry with irony. He knew the answer before Sarov even responded, but he wanted to hear the lie fall from his lips.
Sarov let out a low, almost mocking laugh, as though Alex had just told him the most absurd joke. "No, Alex," he said, turning to face him fully now, his smile cold. "The slaves were freed long before I came here. The revolution did that. I bought the island afterward. For other purposes."
The glint in Sarov's eye unsettled Alex, but he pressed on. "What are you planning?" he asked, his voice low but firm.
Sarov's face softened into a patronizing smile. "You're not ready for that yet," he replied, his tone almost fatherly, as if Alex were an eager student asking a question he couldn't yet comprehend.
Alex narrowed his eyes, undeterred. "Why are you meeting with the Russian president?"
The General gave a nonchalant shrug, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed something deeper. "He's just visiting," Sarov said, as though it were a simple dinner arrangement. "You'll have the chance to meet him."
"Why?" Alex pushed again, his suspicion growing. There was no way this was just a social call.
Sarov turned his head slightly, regarding Alex with a mix of amusement and condescension. "Because, Alex, I'm a person of interest," he said, his voice lowering into something darker, more dangerous. "The president and I... we go way back." He leaned in just enough to make Alex feel the pressure of his presence. "And soon, you'll understand why that matters."
Alex could feel the cold tendrils of Sarov's plans tightening around him, the invisible chains of whatever plot was unfolding on this island. And yet, Sarov's smugness made it clear: he believed Alex had no way out. Not yet.
"You visited the city," Sarov stated abruptly, changing the subject with a casualness that put Alex on edge.
Alex blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "How do you know that?" he asked, his heart picking up pace.
Sarov's eyes gleamed with quiet authority. "I know everything that happens, Alex."
"That's... creepy," Alex muttered, his attempt at humor doing little to mask the growing unease in his chest.
Sarov smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "In fact, the man you met in the city was the one who alerted me to your plan," he continued, his voice smooth and unnervingly calm. "It was foolish of the CIA to think that their contacts were loyal to them."
Alex's stomach twisted further as Sarov's words painted a bleak picture of manipulation and suffering. His mind was racing, but he forced himself to listen, trying to piece together what the general was really after.
"The point is that you saw the city, Alex," Sarov said, his voice dropping, becoming more intense. "You saw how Cubans live, in poverty."
Alex nodded, still grappling with the betrayal that had blindsided him. But Sarov's words tugged at something else—something real that Alex had seen with his own eyes.
"Do you think it's fair, Alex?" Sarov pressed on. "That tourists come here, eat plates full of food, and even have the luxury of wasting it, while Cubans are barely scraping by to have anything? Electricity is a luxury. Medicine is scarce. Do you think that's fair?"
Alex hesitated. "Of course not," he said slowly. "But it's not the tourism that's the problem—it's the government."
Sarov's eyes darkened, and he leaned in slightly, his voice sharpening. "The world turned its back on Cuba. The USA punished them with sanctions, and everyone else allowed it. Cuba has so much potential—some of the best doctors in the world, a great healthcare system with no wait times in hospitals, brilliant scientists—but their government wastes it all. These great minds live in poverty because of the greed of their leaders."
Alex frowned, unsure where Sarov was going with this. "What's your point here?"
"My point, Alex," Sarov said, his tone laced with a chilling conviction, "is that Cuba has fallen under Western influence, crippled by policies that benefit no one but the elite. It could be a great country, but it isn't—because the USA doesn't want it to be. But Cuba doesn't need anyone to succeed. The same will happen to Russia under the current government. If things don't change, Russia will suffer the same fate, and I won't allow it to happen, I will grab the opportunity before anyone ruins"
Sarov paused, letting his words settle like a weight on Alex's shoulders. The island's breeze rustled through the palm trees, but the air between them felt heavier, charged with an ominous energy.
"This is bigger than you think, Alex," Sarov continued, his voice calm but heavy with implication. "And whether you realize it or not, you have a part to play."
Alex's eyes narrowed, skepticism evident in his tone. "So, you want to overthrow Russia's government? Is that what all of this is about?"
Sarov shook his head slowly, a faint, unsettling smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "It's more than that, Alex. Far more."
Alex crossed his arms, not entirely buying into whatever grand plan Sarov was hinting at. "Then what? What could possibly be more than that?"
Sarov leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Alex with an intensity that was hard to ignore. "It's not just about taking down a government. It's about creating something new—reshaping the world."
Alex felt a chill creep down his spine. "but enough of that Alex, supper is waiting for us" he said getting up
Alex felt a chill creep down his spine as Sarov's words settled in. The weight of the general's ambition, the scale of his twisted vision, hung heavy in the air between them.
The abrupt shift in tone only added to the unease pooling in Alex's stomach. He watched as Sarov straightened his jacket, offering a hand towards the path leading back to the estate.
Alex hesitated for a moment before rising to his feet, his mind still racing with the implications of everything Sarov had said. There was no escaping the gravity of the situation.
Sarov started walking, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path, the sea breeze tugging gently at the edges of his coat. Alex followed, his steps heavy with the weight of unspoken questions. As they moved, the distant murmur of the waves provided an eerie contrast to the calm in Sarov's voice.
And just like that, the conversation was over, leaving Alex to grapple with the chilling realization that the general's plan was already in motion.
When they arrived at what appeared to be the dining room, Sarov's tone shifted once again, adopting a strange hospitality. "I made some of the best Russian cuisine," he said, gesturing to the table, where dishes were laid out with meticulous care. The spread seemed almost absurd, a display of opulence in contrast to the grim reality Sarov had just painted.
Yassen was already seated, his posture relaxed, though his eyes were anything but. They followed Alex and Sarov's movements silently, taking everything in, analyzing.
Alex couldn't help the comment as he glanced over the lavish spread. "This is a lot of food. Aren't you like the tourists you were criticizing five minutes ago?" His tone was dry, challenging the general's earlier lecture about the suffering of the Cuban people.
Sarov's expression didn't falter, a small, almost paternal smile playing on his lips. "I want to introduce you to Russian culture, Alex. Food is a significant part of that." He gestured to the lavish spread across the table—dishes that seemed far too extravagant for a place that once symbolized hardship. "But don't worry, the leftovers won't go to waste. I have plenty of staff who still need to eat."
Alex's eyes flickered with skepticism as he leaned back in his chair. "Why would you want to introduce me to Russian culture?" he asked, his tone sharp, cutting through the general's calm demeanor.
Sarov gave a faint smile, as though Alex's question amused him. "Because, Alex, Russia is where the future lies. You've been used and discarded by the British government, the Americans… they all see you as a tool. But Russia, my vision for Russia, could be a place where you are more than that." He took a sip from his glass, eyes never leaving Alex. "You've been taught to see the world through Western eyes, but there's another way to live, another way to think. And you, Alex, are capable of seeing that—if you allow yourself."
Alex looked at him, trying to understand what game Sarov was playing. Alex's eyes flicked over to Sarov, who was watching him with cold intensity. The air in the room felt stifling, the weight of the general's command pressing down on him like a vice. He glanced over at Yassen, hoping for some sign, some clue as to what he should do. But as always, Yassen remained unreadable, his face giving nothing away, his hands resting calmly on the table.
Sarov's voice sliced through the heavy silence like a command from an executioner. "Eat, Alex."
Alex stared at the extravagant spread of food laid out in front of him, the richness of the meal in stark contrast to the growing knot in his stomach. His own plate sat empty, a reminder of the strange power play Sarov had engineered. He still hadn't moved, his muscles tensing under the general's watchful gaze.
Sarov's tone darkened, each word dripping with cold authority. "Either you eat something, or I will shove it down your throat myself."
Alex rolled his eyes, a small act of rebellion, though his heart pounded in his chest. He knew defiance wasn't an option right now. With a sigh, he reached out and grabbed the first dish in front of him—some kind of stew, thick and unappealing.
The fork felt heavy in his hand as he scooped up a small bite and forced it into his mouth. The taste was bland, but his senses were too numb to even register it properly. He chewed slowly, reluctantly, all the while feeling Sarov's gaze burning into him, watching for the slightest hint of resistance.
Yassen sat quietly, his presence a silent shadow across the table. Alex's eyes flicked toward him again, but there was no reaction, no sign of approval or disapproval, not a hint of sympathy or comfort . Just cold indifference.
Sarov's smile tightened as he watched Alex eat, a shadow flickering across his face. "You know, that was my son's favorite food, He used to ask for it all the time. Simple, yet... comforting." he said, his voice quieter now, almost reflective.
Alex frowned, his mind racing back to the file he had read. He didn't remember any mention of a son. "I didn't know you had a son."
"I had a son," Sarov corrected, his tone growing harder, the pain unmistakable despite the coldness in his voice. "He's dead now. Joined the military when he was just a little older than you. He fought bravely for his country—died for a cause he believed in." Sarov's gaze drifted, his eyes narrowing slightly as if reliving the memory. "Only for months later, the government ended the war with a treaty. My son died, and they backed out like cowards."
Alex felt the weight of Sarov's words settle over the table like a heavy fog. This wasn't just about politics anymore. This was personal. Sarov's entire worldview, his desire to tear down governments and reshape the world, had been fueled by the loss of his son.
"You remind me of him," Sarov said, his gaze piercing as it locked onto Alex. "Strong, capable, and abandoned by those who should have protected you."
Alex's stomach twisted at that. He had no intention of becoming a replacement for the general's dead son
"You think I'm like him?" Alex asked, his voice low, challenging.
Sarov's eyes narrowed, but there was no malice in his gaze. "In many ways, yes. You're fighting, whether you realize it or not."
Alex shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing over at Yassen. The assassin, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, was now frowning, his usual stoic expression replaced by something more conflicted. It was subtle, but in Yassen's eyes, Alex could see a flicker of disapproval—or perhaps concern.
The tension in the room thickened.
"Why do you look at him?" Sarov asked, noticing the glance. "Yassen has been where you are now, Alex. He understands."
Yassen's frown deepened, his jaw tightening as if the words struck a nerve. He said nothing, but the silence between the three of them grew heavier.
"I'm not like you," Alex said finally, his voice steady but low. "And I'm not like him."
Sarov's amused smile didn't waver as Yassen's chair scraped loudly against the floor. The suddenness of Yassen's movement caught Alex off guard, but the assassin remained composed, his eyes sharp and unreadable.
"I think it's time for Alex to go back to his room," Yassen said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of tension. He didn't look at Sarov as he spoke, his focus entirely on Alex.
Sarov raised an eyebrow, as if Yassen's sudden decision amused him even more. "In such a hurry, Yassen? We were just getting started."
Yassen's expression remained stoic, his gaze unwavering. "He needs rest."
For a moment, Sarov seemed to consider this, his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his chair. Then, with a slight nod, he relented. "Very well. Take him back. But we'll continue this conversation, Alex. There's much more for you to learn."
Alex didn't move at first, still feeling the weight of Sarov's gaze on him. He caught Yassen's eye, and for a split second, something passed between them—an unspoken understanding, or perhaps a warning.
"Come," Yassen said, his voice softer now as he gestured for Alex to follow him. Without another word, Alex stood up and walked out, the weight of Sarov's unsettling promise lingering in the back of his mind.
Yassen walked Alex back to his room in silence, his presence looming like a shadow behind him. When they reached the door, Alex expected Yassen to leave him there, but instead, the assassin stepped inside with him, closing the door quietly behind them.
For a moment, the room was filled with a tense stillness, the air thick with unspoken words. Yassen's eyes swept the room briefly before settling on Alex, his usual guarded expression in place, but there was something different—an edge, a weight to the silence.
"What was that about?" Alex asked, his voice low, still on edge from the unsettling dinner with Sarov.
Yassen didn't answer right away. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as if contemplating how much to say. Finally, he spoke, his tone measured. "You shouldn't provoke him, Alex. Sarov… he doesn't take kindly to defiance."
Alex frowned, crossing his own arms in defiance. "So what? I'm just supposed to sit here and play along with his insane plans? He's a madman, Yassen. You know that."
Yassen's gaze didn't falter, but there was a flicker of something—regret, maybe, or understanding. "You don't understand what he's capable of," he said quietly. "Or how far he's willing to go."
Alex felt a surge of frustration. "Then why are you here, working for him? You know this is wrong."
Yassen's jaw tightened. "It's not that simple."
Yassen's jaw clenched, the tension in his body visible as Alex's words hit him. His silence was heavy, filled with conflicting thoughts he wasn't willing to voice. The assassin's usual calm exterior seemed to waver, but only for a moment.
"Yassen, please," Alex urged, his voice lowering. "If you want to follow whatever crazy plan Sarov has, fine. But leave me out of it. You don't owe him this."
Yassen's eyes flicked toward Alex, his expression hard, but there was a glimmer of something in his gaze—something conflicted. He still didn't say a word.
"Help me get out of here," Alex continued, his tone more desperate now. "You know this isn't right. You know I don't belong in this mess."
Yassen finally uncrossed his arms, his fingers flexing as if the conversation was pushing him to the edge of something he didn't want to face. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His voice was low, almost a whisper, when he finally spoke.
Yassen's eyes flickered with a momentary flash of emotion before hardening once more. He paced the small room, his frustration palpable.
"It's not that simple," Yassen repeated, his tone edged with frustration.
"Stop saying that!" Alex snapped, cutting him off. His anger boiled to the surface, his voice shaking. "Sarov is clearly trying to replace his dead son with me. You said you were friends with my father—are you really going to let that happen?"
Yassen froze, Alex's words hitting their mark. His jaw clenched as he turned to face the boy, his usually unreadable expression torn between loyalty and something deeper, something more personal.
"I can't help you, Alex," Yassen said finally, his voice strained, as if the weight of his own words pained him. "Not the way you want."
Alex's frustration boiled over, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He watched as Yassen took a step back, reaching for the door. The sound of it creaking open felt like the closing of any chance Alex had of escaping this nightmare.
"Fuck you, Yassen!" Alex yelled, his voice raw with anger, echoing off the walls. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and sharp.
Yassen paused in the doorway, his back still to Alex. For a moment, it seemed like he might leave without a word, without looking back. But then, he turned just enough for Alex to catch the edge of his expression—cold, unreadable, yet with the faintest trace of regret.
"I'm not a good person, Alex," Yassen said quietly. The words were simple, but there was a lifetime of pain behind them. He looked down, his hand gripping the door as though it took all his strength not to slam it shut. "I've never been. Don't forget that."
And with that, he stepped through the door, closing it softly behind him. Alex was left standing alone, the silence that followed almost deafening, his anger simmering into a deep, unresolved ache.
Kyra sat in the passenger seat of the small, rented car as it sped down the highway, the British countryside blurring past her window. Jack was behind the wheel, gripping it tighter than necessary, his eyes focused on the road ahead. Neither of them had spoken much since they left the airport, but the tension between them was thick, unspoken, and growing heavier with each passing mile.
They were headed to London, to the Department headquarters, for a conversation neither of them wanted to have. The last time they were here, everything had been different—Alex had been with them. But now, after his sudden disappearance, everything felt uncertain. And the only person who might have answers was Mrs. Jones.
Jack glanced over at Kyra, her face set in a determined expression, her eyes narrowed as she stared out at the passing fields. She hadn't said much since they landed, and Jack knew better than to push her. Kyra had been close to Alex in a way none of them really understood, and his absence hit her harder than anyone.
"We'll find him," Jack said quietly, breaking the silence.
Kyra didn't look at him, but she nodded slightly, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "We better."
They reached London as the afternoon sun dipped behind the gray clouds that often hung over the city. The streets were busy, full of life, but it all felt distant, irrelevant to the urgency of their mission. Jack parked the car, and together they made their way to the imposing building that housed the department.
As soon as they pulled up to the building, Crawley was already at the door, a gesture that suggested they had been expected. He gave them a brief nod and silently ushered them inside, leading the way through the labyrinth of corridors that made up MI6's headquarters. Jack and Kyra followed closely, exchanging glances, their anticipation growing with every step.
When they arrived at Mrs. Jones's office, the door opened smoothly to reveal her seated at her desk, her posture as composed as ever, though her expression hinted at the weight of their visit. Jack wasted no time, launching into an explanation of Alex's sudden disappearance, detailing everything they knew, every lead they had chased, only to hit dead ends.
Mrs. Jones listened intently, her sharp eyes never leaving them as Jack spoke. When he finished, the room fell into a brief but heavy silence.
"Will you help us?" Jack finally asked, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.
Mrs. Jones leaned back in her chair, her gaze shifting between the two of them before she spoke. "Mrs. Starbright," she began, "I know who took Alex."
Kyra's eyes widened, the surprise clear on her face. "You do?" she asked, her voice a mix of relief and confusion.
"Yes," Mrs. Jones confirmed, her tone level, though her expression was grim. "It was the CIA. They're responsible for Alex's disappearance."
Kyra's breath caught, and Jack's brow furrowed in disbelief.
"The CIA?" Jack repeated, his voice low. "Why would they take him?"
Mrs. Jones sighed softly. "Because I refused to let them use Alex. They saw an opportunity to take matters into their own hands when I wouldn't cooperate."
Kyra's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "So, they just...kidnapped him?" she asked, her voice rising with anger.
Mrs. Jones nodded. "In their eyes, it was a necessary move. They're operating under the belief that Alex is the key to their plan—whatever it may be."
"And you let this happen?" Jack's voice was tense, his frustration bubbling to the surface.
"I didn't let this happen," Mrs. Jones said sharply, her voice cutting through the tension in the room. "I did everything in my power to keep Alex out of their hands."
Kyra leaned forward, her fists clenched in frustration. "Then where is he? Where did they send him?"
Mrs. Jones sighed, the weight of the question pressing down on her as she closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering herself before responding. "Alex went missing," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "His tracker stopped sending a signal."
Kyra's heart skipped a beat. She blinked, trying to process what Mrs. Jones was saying, but the words didn't fully register.
Mrs. Jones continued, her expression grim. "He's presumed dead... I'm sorry."
For a moment, the room was suffocatingly silent. Jack looked stunned, his face paling. Kyra's mind spun in disbelief.
Kyra's heart clenched as the words tore from her. "You have to be wrong! He always finds a way. He said he would come back. He promised me!"
Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She couldn't, not yet. Not when there was still hope. Not when she could still feel Alex out there, fighting.
Mrs. Jones looked down, her silence heavy, and when she finally spoke, her voice cracked with regret. "I wish I could tell you differently, Kyra. I wish more than anything that I could say he's still out there."
But it felt like a betrayal, like the very world was crumbling around Kyra as she stared at the woman who had been supposed to protect Alex.
"I'm so sorry," Mrs. Jones whispered.