The plan was deceptively simple: lay the trap, wait, and see who took the bait. But nothing about the situation felt simple. Walker's fingers drummed against his rifle, his body coiled tight in the shadows of the derelict railway station.The abandoned station stood on the town's edge, where civilization faded into rust and weeds. The glass ceiling above was shattered, letting in slices of pale, dying light. Vines tangled around iron beams, nature slowly reclaiming what humanity had left behind. It was a perfect stage for a confrontation—isolated, eerie, and full of hidden corners.Elizabeth stood in the middle of the cracked platform. Her coat was buttoned up to her chin, but the cold wind still found ways to whip through. She looked vulnerable, small. The image of a lost, lonely woman—exactly what they wanted their stalkers to see.Walker’s voice crackled softly in her earpiece. "Stay calm. They’re close."She didn't respond, only adjusted her stance. Her eyes darted to the shadows

Walker’s boots hit the pavement in uneven strides, the cold Paris night wrapping around him like a thick fog. The whiskey still lingered in his system—not enough to make him lose control, but just enough to make the city lights blur at the edges. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked, exhaling deeply. Ramirez had left for the airport. Their last drink together had been more than just whiskey—it was a farewell to a brother in arms, a chapter closing.But as he neared his street, a familiar warmth replaced the lingering alcohol in his veins. Home.The small apartment wasn’t much, but it was theirs. The dim glow of the dining room light spilled through the curtains, and he knew what it meant—Elizabeth was still up, waiting for him. Damn.Walker paused outside the door, rubbing his face before stepping in. The soft scent of lavender and home-cooked food wrapped around him immediately.Elizabeth turned from the dining table, her round belly pressing against the edge as she smil

Walker wiped his damp hands on a kitchen towel and glanced toward the dining area, where Elizabeth sat, slowly chewing her meal. Her swollen belly stretched the fabric of her loose nightgown, and every now and then, she winced, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.She was eight months pregnant, and her body bore the full weight of it. Her hands constantly cradled her lower back, and every trip to the bathroom required her steadying herself against walls and furniture.Walker had never imagined himself doing household chores—cooking, washing dishes, rubbing swollen feet—but now, he did them without hesitation.He loved her.And in a few weeks, their child would be here.He tossed the towel aside, reached for his phone, and dialed Ramirez’s number. One ring. Two. Three.No answer.He frowned, redialed. Still nothing.Walker wasn’t worried. Not yet.He walked over to Elizabeth, still holding his phone, and sighed.“Ramirez isn’t picking up.”Elizabeth looked up, raising a brow. “Did you

Walker’s fingers drummed against the table as he stared at his phone screen, frustration twisting in his chest. Jett’s phone was still off. That wasn’t just strange—it was alarming. A top hacker like Jett never turned off his phone. Ever. It didn’t matter if he was being hunted by the government, chased by enemies, or holed up in some dark basement cracking into a high-security database—Jett was always reachable.Something was wrong.Walker inhaled deeply, forcing his mind to stay clear. He couldn't afford to let panic settle in. He had promised Ramirez that he’d help, but he had also promised Elizabeth that he’d stay by her side until she gave birth. And right now, that promise meant more than anything.Just then, Elizabeth walked in, her slow, careful movements making a soft shuffling noise as she held onto the furniture for support. She was visibly exhausted, her hand resting on her belly, but her sharp gaze never missed a thing.“Walker,” she called.No response.She called again,

The streetlights cast long shadows over Fulton Street, their dim glow flickering against the cracked pavement. Oscar tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. 921 Fulton Street—Ramirez’s house—was sealed with yellow police tape, the windows shattered, the front door barely hanging on its hinges.He pulled up without bothering to close the patrol car door. His gut was already twisted in knots. He took out his phone, dialing Ramirez. No answer. A second call. Voicemail.Oscar exhaled sharply. Damn it.He bent over, carefully lifting the police seal. If anyone asked, he’d say he was investigating—technically, he still had a badge. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, his boots crunching on broken glass. The place was torn apart—furniture upturned, drawers emptied, walls scraped. A clear message.They had come for Ramirez. And they had taken his family.Oscar wasn’t surprised. He had pulled out of Walker’s case with Dr. Graham for this exact reason. He saw it comi