I shoved my shoulder against the heavy wooden door, the creak of the hinges barely audible over the muffled chaos spilling out. As I stepped inside, the smell of spilled beer, sweat, and something fried hit me all at once. The room was alive—packed wall to wall with sweaty, laughing, drunken people, their energy bouncing off the dimly lit walls. This wasn't exactly where I imagined myself tonight, but here I was.

I hadn't come with the intention of getting blackout drunk, but with Frank and Mason involved, there was never a guarantee I'd stick to my plans.

Scanning the room, I quickly spotted them in a corner booth. Frank was grinning from ear to ear, his beard a little wild, while Mason gave me a quick wave, his laid-back smirk as familiar as ever. On the table in front of them sat three beers, one obviously meant for me.

"Ah, look who decided to show up!" Frank bellowed as he stood, pulling me into one of his bear-like embraces. There was something about his warmth—he was the kind of guy who made you feel like family, no matter how chaotic the rest of his life seemed.

"Good to see you," Mason said, his voice calm as usual. He gestured to the beer already waiting for me and added, "Also, heads up—shots are on their way."

"Great," I muttered, sliding into the booth and raising an eyebrow. "I told myself I wouldn't get drunk tonight, Mason."

My protest didn't land, though, as both of them immediately burst into laughter.

"Oh sure," Frank teased, his grin widening. "And I told myself I wouldn't flirt with anyone tonight. Let's see who lasts longer."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help laughing along. Who was I kidding? I wasn't walking out of this place sober.

Before I knew it, the buzz had settled in, warm and familiar. Laughter bubbled out of me as the three of us swapped stories, taking turns roasting one another. The room seemed a little brighter—or maybe blurrier. Frank, true to his word, had already zeroed in on a brunette at the bar, leaning into the charm he swore always worked. Mason, meanwhile, was orchestrating the next round of shots, his quiet demeanour masking the mischief brewing in his head.

By the time the giggles hit me full force, I knew I'd lost the battle I'd promised myself. Frank was now glued to the girl he'd just met, chatting her up like they were old friends. Mason leaned back in the booth, amused, while I sipped my beer and watched the night unfold.

So much for taking it easy.

Mason and I sat in the booth, the table between us scattered with two half-empty beers and four untouched shots. The conversation had drifted to Frank's predictable antics, specifically his unsuccessful attempts at charming the brunette at the bar.

"Classic Frank," I chuckled, shaking my head.

"Yeah, he's nothing if not consistent," Mason quipped, raising his beer. His tone was light, but when I turned back toward him, his expression had shifted. His eyes were locked on something—or someone—in the far corner of the room.

"Bell," he said quietly, his voice low and deliberate.

I turned, following his gaze, my stomach tightening as I caught the sharp seriousness in his face. "What is it?" I asked, trying to sound calm, even as unease crawled up my spine. I took another swig of my beer, though it didn't do much to settle the rising tension.

Mason's jaw clenched, and he leaned closer. "Man to the right side of the room. Another to the left. They've been eying you down for the last five minutes." His words sent a jolt through me. His tone wasn't playful, and there was no mistaking the edge in his voice.

"Do you have your 1911 on you?" Mason's gaze flicked briefly to mine. "Suppressor attached?"

I nodded, instinct kicking in. "Yeah. It's in my sling," I murmured under my breath, shifting slightly in my seat to confirm it was there.

Mason gave a tight nod of approval but didn't relax. Frank, who had been sitting a few feet away nursing his own drink, suddenly stood. His demeanour had changed entirely; the easy going, beer-drinking charmer was gone, replaced by something colder and more focused. He gave me a meaningful glance before tilting his head subtly toward the back exit.

My heartbeat quickened. This wasn't part of the plan—or the evening I had imagined—but there was no time to overthink. Panic flared as I spotted movement from the two men Mason had mentioned. One shifted, leaning toward the bar as if signalling someone.

"Mason?" My voice was quieter now, laced with the urgency I couldn't contain.

His hand closed around mine firmly, anchoring me in place. "Go with Frank," he instructed, his voice calm but decisive. "Flank them from the back alley. There's three of them. I'll keep the two inside occupied." His eyes narrowed. "You take the one on the right side of the alley. Clean, quiet."

I nodded, swallowing the fear rising in my throat. There wasn't room for hesitation. Frank was already moving toward the exit, his steps calculated, his head tilted slightly as though he could sense every movement in the room. I slid out of the booth, my pulse thrumming in my ears, and followed him toward the darkened hallway that led outside.

My hand brushed against the familiar weight of my weapon, and I took a deep breath, focusing on the task ahead. One step at a time. Quiet. Precise. This wasn't the first time I'd found myself in a situation like this—and I knew it wouldn't be the last.

My legs felt like jelly as I trailed closely behind Frank, the night air chilling my skin despite the adrenaline coursing through me. The alley behind the bar was dimly lit, shadows stretching and shifting as if alive. Frank glanced back at me, his expression a mix of concern and resolve.

"Keep your head up and your ears sharp," he said, his voice low but steady. He offered a worried smile, the kind that didn't do much to ease my nerves. "If I had to guess, these are Stitches' men."

I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the weight at my side. "Not to worry you," I whispered, scanning the dark corners of the alley, "but they definitely are."

Frank's jaw clenched at my confirmation. "Figures. Alright, you take this corner and cover the right. I'll head left." He shifted into position with practiced ease, his movements sharp and deliberate. "Mason's handling the one inside. Take these two out clean and drag them back here. We'll make sure they don't leave breathing." His tone was flat but laced with quiet fury. "Fucking bastards won't know what hit 'em."

The sound of the bar door swinging open shattered the stillness, followed by the heavy thud of boots on the pavement. Two voices carried through the alley, speaking Russian—Soviet accents thick and unmistakable. My chest tightened. Frank nodded toward me, his own 1911 already in his hand, the matte black metal blending into the shadows. I mirrored his movements, drawing my weapon.

One of the voices made my blood run cold; it was disturbingly familiar, though I couldn't place it. I caught Frank's eyes and gave a small nod, signalling I was ready, even if my heart was pounding like a war drum.

Flattening myself against the wall, I held up three fingers, motioning the countdown. Frank's eyes narrowed as he watched, his breath steady.

"Three..."

I inhaled deeply, trying to calm the tremor in my hands.

"Two..."

My finger hovered over the trigger, my senses sharpening as my world narrowed to this moment.

"One."

In perfect synchronization, Frank and I rounded the corner, our movements silent and precise. The men didn't even have time to react. My shot landed squarely, the muffled sound of the suppressor blending with the faint hum of the alley's distant noise. A gasp escaped one of the men as he dropped to the ground, his body crumpling with a sickening thud. Beside me, Frank's target fell just as swiftly, his lifeless form hitting the concrete in eerie unison with the first.

I exhaled shakily, the weight of the moment settling in as the metallic scent of blood began to mix with the night air.

"Good work," Frank muttered, his voice tense but approving. "Let's check on Mason. If these fuckers are here, there's a good chance there's more lurking around."

I nodded, ejecting my magazine and quickly reloading the 1911, my fingers working automatically despite the fear knotting in my stomach. Better safe than sorry. Every sound in the alley felt amplified, each creak and rustle sending my nerves on edge.

"They've been following us for a while," I said, my voice quieter now, my eyes scanning the darkness for movement. "This won't be the last of them."

Frank grunted in agreement as we moved, dragging the bodies into the shadows. Whatever was coming next, we'd face it head-on. For now, though, it was all about surviving the night.

As we approached the bar door, the weight of adrenaline and heavy breathing still grounding us, it suddenly burst open with a crash. Mason emerged, his 1911 pressed firmly against the head of a short, wiry man whose face froze me in place. Recognition hit me like a sucker punch to the gut.

"Beck?" The name barely left my lips, my voice a shaky whisper. My feet faltered as if the sight of him physically pushed me back. For a moment, the chaos around us blurred, the sounds of the alley distant.

"You traitor," Beck spat, venom dripping from every syllable. His glare burned with a mix of fury and desperation as Mason shoved the barrel of the gun harder against the back of his skull.

Mason's calm voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Your call, Bell. We put a bullet in his head, or we send him back to Stitch with a warning." He glanced at me, waiting, though his grip on the weapon didn't waver.

I took a deep, steadying breath and slid my 1911 back into its sling. Beck flinched, a flicker of hope crossing his face, but it was short-lived as I grabbed him by his collar and shoved him hard against the rough, cobbled wall. The force rattled him, his breath hitching as I stepped in close, my face mere inches from his.

"Don't fuck with me, Beck," I growled, my voice low but seething with fury. His eyes darted to Mason and Frank, who stood just behind me, weapons ready and scanning the alley for any sign of trouble. They weren't about to let anyone sneak up on us. "What's the matter? Don't you think it's a bit pathetic that Stitch didn't come for me himself?"

Beck's lips parted, but no words came. His bravado cracked under the weight of my glare, and his silence spoke louder than any defiance.

"Speak," I hissed, pulling my handgun out once more and pressing it firmly to his temple. The cold steel met his skin, and he winced, beads of sweat beginning to drip down his face despite the night's chill. "I mean it, Beck. What the hell does Stitch want?"

For a second, I thought he might finally break, the fear in his eyes growing more pronounced. But before he could form a response, chaos erupted from inside the bar. Shouts echoed, followed by the unmistakable sounds of screaming. My head snapped in the direction of the noise, and my pulse quickened. Time was slipping away, and whatever was happening inside, it wasn't good.

"Bell," Mason said sharply, his voice cutting through my thoughts. His stance shifted, his gun still trained on Beck but his focus split between the alley and the door. "We've got company incoming. What's it going to be?"

My jaw clenched, and I stared Beck down for a second longer, weighing my options. Whatever this was, it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

"Bell! Wrap this up or take him with us," Mason barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "More people are coming through the bar!"

"Fuck him!" Woods growled, his gritty tone carrying just as a man rounded the corner. Without missing a beat, Woods fired, dropping the guy with sharp precision. His gunshot echoed off the alley walls, the sharp scent of gunpowder lingering in the air.

My head swam with too many thoughts at once—Stitch, Beck, the screams from the bar—but instinct took over. With a swift movement, I swung my 1911 and cracked Beck hard across the head. The impact was satisfying, and his body slumped like a rag doll, unconscious against the cobbled wall. He wasn't dead, but by the bleeding out in his abdomen, it wouldn't be long before he was. 

"Leave him here," I snapped, my voice firm as I holstered the weapon. "Anyone that gets in the way? Shoot them."

Frank and Mason nodded, no questions asked, and we moved quickly down the alley, slipping through the narrow gap that led to the back of the bar. The street beyond was dimly lit but open, the kind of space that left you feeling exposed.

Up ahead, the black sedan waited like a beacon of hope—or trouble. Its headlights were off, but the faint reflection of streetlights glinted on its polished surface. My heart pounded as more men poured out of the bar behind us, shouting in a language I couldn't quite catch over the rush of adrenaline.

"Keep your bloody heads down," Mason muttered, his voice sharp with tension as we casually picked up our pace toward the sedan. The last thing we needed was to look like we were running.

"You think Hudson's going to be happy about this mess?" Woods said, his usual gruff confidence replaced with a rare note of worry.

"Fucking, A, Woods," I shot back, unable to suppress a humourless laugh. The absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on me, even as my pulse hammered in my ears. My hand stayed close to my weapon, fingers itching for another fight as we reached the sedan.

Mason was the first to yank open a door, scanning the street for any signs of more trouble as the rest of us piled in. Frank slid into the driver's seat, his expression grim but focused, while I threw myself into the backseat with Woods.

The men from the bar weren't far behind. "Go!" I hissed, slamming the door shut just as another figure emerged from the alley, weapon raised.

Frank didn't wait for permission. The tires screeched as he slammed the gas pedal, and the sedan roared to life, tearing down the street and leaving chaos in its wake. Whatever Hudson was going to say about this, I'd deal with it later. Right now, it was all about getting out alive.

-----

"Hudson, it was a slip. Somehow, they've got us pinned," Mason said, his voice heavy with frustration as he leaned back in his chair and took a swig of his beer. The room felt stifling, tension thick in the air as Adler stepped in, his usual calm demeanor replaced with something closer to concern. His worried expression set me on edge, my stomach twisting tighter with every unspoken word between them.

"They're after her," Mason added, his tone low but firm, his eyes flicking toward me for a fraction of a second.

That was it. I couldn't sit still any longer. My pulse quickened, and before I could stop myself, I pushed back my chair and walked away from the table. I crossed the room toward Adler, my emotions bubbling over in a way I rarely let them. Without a second thought, I hugged him, holding on tighter than I meant to.

Adler stiffened for a moment, surprised, but his arms soon wrapped around me, steady and reassuring. "Hey," he murmured softly, his voice calm and steady, "it's going to be alright."

For a fleeting moment, I felt grounded. The warmth of his embrace chased away some of the cold fear gnawing at my edges. Hudson, seated at the table, shot us a glance, his grin tinged with amusement, one eyebrow arched knowingly. But I didn't care. Right then, I needed this small shred of comfort to remind me I wasn't facing this alone.

Eventually, I pulled away, nodding to Adler before walking back to join the others at the table. The brief calm I'd found was already slipping away, replaced by the weight of what Hudson said next.

"We may need to put you somewhere else, Bell," Hudson said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. His words carried a seriousness that settled heavily in my chest, and the way he looked at me only made the weight worse. "We don't know just yet, but it's a possibility."

His tone sent a shiver through me, and the room seemed to grow colder. Hudson rarely sounded like this unless things were bad. Really bad.

"I'll be back soon with more information," he added, already rising from his seat. His movements were sharp and efficient, a man with too much on his mind and too little time to deal with it all. "For now, I've got people guarding every corner of the house. Stitch could easily have Bell's location, and if that's the case, we can't take chances."

He adjusted his glasses as he made his way toward the door, the faint click of their metal frame against his hand punctuating the silence. "Stay alert," he called back over his shoulder before stepping outside. His face was set in stone, and he didn't look amused in the slightest.

The door closed behind him, leaving the rest of us sitting in a thick, uneasy quiet. The realization settled in—this wasn't just another close call. Stitch was closing in, and for the first time in a long while, I wasn't sure what our next move would be.

The silence hung over us, thick and suffocating, as if any sound would shatter the fragile calm in the room. No one dared to speak, the weight of Hudson's words sinking into each of us in different ways. My head felt like it was spinning out of control, a storm of thoughts and emotions raging inside me. Surely, knocking Beck out had bought us some time—at least enough to regroup. I could've done worse, but I'd held back, hoping that restraint might send a message. But what if it wasn't enough?

Finally, I couldn't take the tension anymore. "Let's not worry," I said, breaking the silence as I pushed myself up from the table. My voice was steadier than I felt. "For all we know, it could've been a trap. Maybe they don't even know we're here." I walked to the counter and grabbed some glasses, then a bottle of whiskey. The act of doing something, anything, helped me center myself.

As I poured drinks for everyone, Adler nodded, though his gaze had drifted somewhere distant. His eyes looked glossy, lost in thought, and it made my chest tighten. Mason and Frank, on the other hand, exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of concern and barely contained irritation.

"If I get moved somewhere else," I said, turning back to face them, "you'll all be here. Right here. Somewhere I can come back to when it's safe. Let's not worry, okay? Please." My voice softened on the last word, almost pleading. I sat back down, the glasses untouched in front of them, and reached for the bottle instead. Skipping the formality, I took a long swig straight from it.

The burn of the whiskey steadied me. "Have a drink," I said, leaning back in my chair as I passed the bottle across the table. "Wind down a bit. We'll wait till Hudson gets back, and then we'll figure it out."

The room stayed quiet for a beat longer before Adler reached for one of the glasses. Mason hesitated, his jaw tight as if debating whether to speak, but ultimately grabbed another. Frank gave me a sceptical look, but when I pushed the bottle toward him, he shrugged and poured himself a drink.

For now, it wasn't about finding solutions. It was about holding it together, even if just for a little while longer.

The mood in the house was grim, the weight of uncertainty settling over us like a heavy blanket. Barely any words were exchanged between me and the others, and even the occasional clink of a glass felt like too much noise. An hour passed before Sims and Park walked in, their usual energy dulled as they assessed the atmosphere.

"No one's in the mood today, Sims," Adler snapped, his voice sharp and unusually harsh as he took another swig of his beer. The condensation dripped down the bottle, mirroring the tension in the room.

"Oh shit, sorry," Sims said, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. His attempt at levity fell flat, and after an awkward pause, he muttered something about heading to the lounge and shuffled off.

I watched the exchange, my head spinning—not from the whiskey but from the stark contrast between my forced calm and the unease radiating from everyone else. While they all seemed deadly silent and on edge, I was teetering on the edge of drunk, pretending that everything was fine. Maybe I was just fooling myself.

The weight of it all became too much to bear in the crowded space, so I stood up and quietly slipped out, heading toward my room. The moment I stepped away, I felt the subtle shift in the air, the way everyone's eyes followed me as if I were carrying the answers they didn't have. But I wasn't.

I reached my room and closed the door behind me, but I wasn't alone for long. A few seconds later, Adler appeared, stepping inside without a word. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, his gaze steady on me.

"Bell," he said softly, gesturing for me to sit down. "Please, just for a bit. Now isn't a good time to get drunk."

I let out a sigh and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, my legs feeling heavier than usual. "I'm nowhere near drunk," I replied, though my voice lacked conviction. I exhaled, lying back against the mattress and staring up at the ceiling. "I'm just... tired, Russell."

Adler walked over and sat down beside me, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out and gently pulled me closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. The gesture was comforting in its familiarity, the kind of quiet reassurance I didn't realize I needed.

"It's going to be okay," he said softly, his voice steady and sure. "Surely this was just a setback. If anyone had followed you back here, they wouldn't have a hope of getting through that gate. We've got it locked down tighter than ever."

I nodded against him, resting my head in the crook of his neck. For the first time all day, I let myself relax, sinking into the warmth of his embrace. I didn't want to leave, didn't want to face the prospect of being moved somewhere else. This place, as chaotic and tense as it was, felt like the last tether to something stable. But if moving was necessary, then I'd do it. I'd do whatever it took to stay one step ahead of Stitch.

For now, though, I stayed where I was, finding a small measure of peace in Adler's quiet reassurance.