Chapter 18
Jace and Scar Face stood at the threshold of house 95, the silence inside a sharp contrast to the chaos tearing through Lily Estate outside. They stepped cautiously over debris and shattered glass, eyes scanning the wrecked room. Amidst the destruction lay Silas, sprawled and almost lifeless, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Jace hurried over, dropping to his knees as he checked Silas's pulse and vital signs, his expression tightening with concern. Scar Face leaned against a wall, arms crossed, a smirk curling his lips. "So this is the mighty Silas Moreau?" he sneered. "Knocked out cold by some forty-something woman? Margret's got more fight than he does."
Jace's eyes flickered with irritation. "You jealous or just bitter he's not the untouchable king you want him to be?"
Scar Face shrugged, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Maybe I'm just sick of pretending Silas is some invincible beast. Guess even he's got a weakness."
Their bickering filled the heavy air, but it was cut short as Spiro burst through the doorway, face pale and urgent. "Cut the crap! People are slipping away—this mission's falling apart. We need every hand on deck, now."
Jace nodded, hoisting Silas up with effort. The wounded man was heavy, his body limp but breathing still steady enough for now.
Meanwhile, in the cramped darkness of a nearby drinks cabinet, Quinn and Tina pressed their backs against the wood, barely daring to move. Quinn's pale face was slick with sweat; her breathing shallow and uneven. Tina's heart pounded in her chest as she glanced at the blood soaking Quinn's sleeve—a cruel reminder of the bullet graze she'd taken during the fight with Silas.
Tina swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. "Quinn… you okay?"
Quinn's eyelids fluttered, and suddenly she slumped forward, collapsing against Tina. Panic prickled at Tina's skin as she caught her, whispering, "Stay with me, you hear? We gotta get out of here."
Outside the cabinet, footsteps and muffled voices echoed. The estate was unraveling into chaos, screams and gunfire painting a nightmare soundtrack. Tina's mind raced, calculating escape routes, weighing options, knowing every second counted.
She tightened her grip on Quinn, steeling herself for what came next—because surviving tonight meant running through hell itself.
★houndhouse, late night★
The air inside the Houndhouse was thick with tension, buzzing like a hive thrown into chaos. Sirens blared faintly in the distance, but inside the station, the sounds were sharper—officers shouting orders, the clatter of weapons being loaded, boots pounding concrete floors. A full-scale emergency was underway. The attack at Lily Estate had ignited a storm no one could ignore.
Desks were cluttered with radios, maps, and files as frantic officers organized rescue teams, pulling together manpower for what felt like a war zone. Every face was taut, eyes darting between screens and radios, searching for the next piece of news or instruction.
Then, like a thunderclap cutting through the storm, Draya burst through the double doors. Her usual cool composure had shifted into something fierce — determination sharpened by urgency. She strode through the room like a general leading her troops, her voice commanding and no-nonsense.
"Listen up! This is not a drill. We've got officers and civilians caught in the Lily Estate chaos. I want every rescue unit prepped and ready to move. Now!"
Heads snapped toward her as she cut through the noise. She didn't wait for questions. Moving to a nearby officer, she barked, "Get Devon, Quinn, Tina, Trent, and Theo on the line. They need to be here ASAP for the rescue team. No excuses."
The tension was palpable, every second loaded with stakes nobody dared voice aloud.
But as she turned to head to her office to coordinate further, the sight waiting for her stopped her cold.
Jean-Luc.
Sitting casually in her chair, as if he owned the place. His eyes glinted with that familiar cold menace — calm, collected, and dangerously unreadable.
For a heartbeat, the chaos around her faded. Draya's jaw clenched. The uninvited presence in her domain was a reminder: even in this crisis, power games simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.
Jean-Luc's faint smirk said it all — the storm outside wasn't the only one Draya had to face tonight.
The rescue was just beginning.
*********
Draya closed the heavy door behind her with a sharp click, the lock's finality echoing in the tense silence of the office. Her eyes locked on Jean-Luc, who sat there with that unsettling calm — the kind of calm that meant storms were brewing beneath the surface. She wasn't here for pleasantries. This was business. Cold, raw, and necessary.
"So," she began, her voice steady but edged with steel, "was it your boys? The ones responsible for the hellstorm at Lily Estate?" There was no accusation — just a demand for truth, the kind that didn't tolerate evasions.
Jean-Luc smiled, a slow, knowing curl of lips that felt less like warmth and more like a warning. "Draya," he said smoothly, "you know this dance well." He gestured to the chair opposite him, voice laced with that devilish charm he wielded like a weapon. "Sit. Let's have a drink. Relax for once."
Draya's eyes narrowed, the sharp glint of a woman who'd played this game too long. "I'm not here to relax. I'm here to do my job. You need to call your men back, now. Stop this madness before it devours everything."
Jean-Luc's smile didn't falter. "Now, now," he said softly, but firmly, "sit down." His voice wasn't just a request — it was a command, the kind that brooked no argument. The power play was clear. He was testing her limits, reminding her that in this game, control was everything.
She hesitated — the room heavy with tension, the air thick as if charged with electricity. Finally, she slid into the chair, the weight of the alliance — fragile, dangerous — pressing down. He poured two glasses of amber liquid, the clink of the glass sharp in the quiet.
"Let's have some fun time, mm?" Jean-Luc's grin deepened, that sly sparkle in his eyes promising both danger and an intoxicating challenge.
Draya took the glass, her fingers steady despite the storm raging inside her. She sipped slowly, eyes never leaving his. She was here to do her job — to keep the fragile order from shattering — but with Jean-Luc, the lines between ally and adversary blurred like smoke. Every move was a dance on a razor's edge.
The reader feels the electric charge between them: two titans locked in a silent duel, where trust was a weapon, and power was the prize. The stakes had never been higher, and every word, every glance, was a calculated step in a deadly game neither could afford to lose.
Tina dragged Quinn out of their cramped hideout like she was hauling a sack of potatoes, only this sack was pale, bleeding, and definitely not cooperating. Quinn's head lolled against the cold floor as Tina gently—but not gently enough—let her rest it down.
"Oh girl, what have you gotten us into this time?" Tina whispered, eyes darting like a squirrel on espresso. She peered out the grimy window and immediately wished she hadn't. Flames licked the night sky, gunshots echoed like fireworks gone rogue, and people were sprinting in every direction like it was the end of the world. "Yep, apocalypse vibes. We're definitely not in Kansas anymore."
Turning back to Quinn, Tina's breath hitched. The blonde was turning whiter than a ghost at a bleach convention. "Okay, Quinn, you are NOT looking good right now. And I'm low-key starting to regret tailing you like some creepy paparazzi… but hey, you did lead me right into this mess." She covered her face for a second, then peeked through her fingers. "Honestly, if anyone deserves this, it's me."
Her hand shot to her pocket, only to panic because—oh snap—her phone was gone. The one lifeline she had to call for help, to dial out of this nightmare? Poof. Vanished.
"Of course. Of course," Tina muttered, cursing her own clumsy ass under her breath. Without thinking twice, she bolted upstairs, feet pounding like drumbeats of doom. She rifled through drawers, knocking over random junk in a frenzy until—hallelujah—she spotted a cellphone just chilling on a table, screen unlocked like some miracle.
Grabbing it like a treasure, she practically sprinted back downstairs, heart pounding in her throat.
Back with Quinn, who was still a fragile little mess on the floor, Tina jammed the phone to her ear and punched in a number she hoped would answer: Trent.
"Come on, Trent… pick up, pick up… please don't ghost me now," she whispered desperately, pressing the phone tighter as the distant chaos crashed in through the windows.
Around them, the sounds of gunfire, screams, and crackling fire made it clear this wasn't just a bad night—it was the nightmare, and Tina's nosy, reckless streak might just be the match lighting the whole thing up.