Chapter 1
Stuart sat on the porch of his suburban home, the glass of iced tea in his hand growing slick with condensation as he watched the sun dip below the horizon. The sky was awash with shades of orange and purple, casting long shadows across the neatly trimmed lawn. This peaceful setting was a stark contrast to the memories that sometimes surfaced when the day turned to night, but here, surrounded by his family, he could keep those memories at bay.
The door behind him creaked open, and Evelyn stepped out onto the porch. She was as radiant as ever, her presence a constant source of comfort in Stuart’s life. She glanced at him, a soft smile on her lips.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said, her voice warm and inviting.
Stuart returned her smile. “I’ll be right in.”
Evelyn nodded and lingered for a moment, then turned to go back inside. Stuart took a deep breath, savouring the cool evening air. This was his sanctuary, the place where he could push the past to the back of his mind and focus on what really mattered—his family.
A burst of laughter from inside the house made him look up, and he heard the familiar sound of his daughter’s quick footsteps approaching. Lily appeared at the door, her long brown hair swinging as she bounded out onto the porch.
“Dad, Jake’s being so annoying!” she declared, crossing her arms in mock frustration.
Stuart chuckled, shaking his head. “What’s he done now?”
“He’s trying to teach me his game, but he keeps saying I’m doing it wrong. It’s so frustrating!”
“Sounds like you’re both just stubborn,” Stuart said, smiling as he stood up. “Let’s go see if we can’t settle this.”
Lily grinned; her frustration quickly forgotten as she followed her father back inside. In the living room, Jake was sprawled on the couch, a controller in hand, looking mildly exasperated.
“She’s impossible, Dad,” Jake said with a grin as he looked up. “I’m trying to help her, but she’s got her own ideas about how to play.”
Stuart ruffled his son’s hair as he walked by. “Well, maybe you could take it easy on her. It’s not like you got it right the first time either.”
Jake shrugged, his grin widening. “Yeah, yeah. I guess I can cut her some slack.”
Lily stuck her tongue out at him, but there was a hint of a smile on her face. Stuart watched them both, his heart swelling with a quiet pride. These moments were what kept him grounded, what made everything else worth it.
“Dinners on the table,” Evelyn called from the kitchen.
They all moved to the dining room, where the table was set, and the smell of roasted chicken filled the air. As they settled in, the familiar rhythm of family life unfolded—Jake talking about his day at college, Lily chiming in with her own stories from school. Stuart listened, his expression calm and attentive, even as his thoughts occasionally drifted to darker places.
But he kept those thoughts locked away, hidden behind the mask of normalcy that he had perfected over the years. Evelyn never asked, and he never offered. It was an unspoken understanding between them; some things were better left unsaid.
As dinner wrapped up and the dishes were cleared, Jake and Lily disappeared upstairs, leaving Stuart and Evelyn alone in the quiet of the evening. Stuart retired to his favourite armchair in the living room, a book in hand, while Evelyn settled onto the couch with a magazine.
They didn’t need to fill the silence with words. After years together, they were comfortable in the quiet, knowing that each other’s presence was enough.
When the time came to turn in for the night, Stuart followed Evelyn upstairs, their nightly routine as familiar as the house they had built together. Once in bed, with Evelyn’s soft breathing beside him, Stuart stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come.
But as the house grew still, the memories began to creep back in. Faces from the past, moments he wished he could forget, played out behind his closed eyes. He knew they would visit him in his dreams, as they always did, but he would endure them, as he always had.
The next morning, he would wake to the sound of his children getting ready for school, the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen where Evelyn would be making breakfast. And just like every other day, he would push the memories back down, put on his mask, and go on with his life.
Chapter 2
Azam’s heart pounded in his chest, each thud echoing in his ears like the gunshots he had just heard. He pressed his hands over his mouth to stifle his sobs, but it did little to drown out the screams of his family-the desperate, pleading cries of his mother, the angry shouts of his father, and the terrified wails of his siblings. He had been playing beneath the floorboards when the soldiers arrived, their boots heavy on the wooden planks above him.
He could see them through the cracks, their faces twisted with cruelty and indifference. They claimed to be liberators, freeing the people from tyranny, but all Azam saw was death. His father had stood up to them, demanding they leave, but they shot him down without hesitation. His mother had tried to protect the children, but they dragged her away, her screams piercing the night. His older brother had fought back, but a knife ended his resistance. And his sister… Azam squeezed his eyes shut, willing the images to go away.
When it was over, the soldiers laughed as they left, leaving behind nothing but bodies and blood. Azam stayed hidden until he was sure they were gone. When he finally crawled out from his hiding place, he was met with a scene of unimaginable horror. His family lay dead, their lifeless eyes staring up at him, accusing and empty.
The days that followed were a blur of pain and hunger. Azam buried his family with his small, trembling hands, each scoop of dirt feeling like it was being shovelled into his heart. He was alone, utterly and completely alone. He wandered the streets, searching for scraps of food, digging through trash like an animal. He was not the only one -there were other children like him, orphaned and broken, but they kept to themselves, too lost in their own grief to offer comfort.
Years passed, and the boy who had once trembled in fear grew into a young man of nineteen. Azam was tall, his frame lean and wiry, but with a strength that belied his appearance. His skin was tanned and dirty, his hair a wild mess of curls that framed a face hardened by years of suffering. The innocence of his childhood was long gone, replaced by a cold, calculating demeanour. He had learned to control his anger, to channel it into something more dangerous-a cold, ruthless resolve. Fear no longer had any hold on him; feelings were a luxury he could not afford.
One day, while rummaging through the wreckage of what had once been a home, Azam found a name tag. It was dirty, scratched, but the name was still legible: Stuart H. Locke. The letters burned into his mind, searing with the heat of his growing hatred. This was the man who had led the soldiers into his house, who had ordered the slaughter of his family.
Azam had immersed himself in the world of crime, doing whatever it took to survive. He had learned to steal, to fight, to kill if necessary. But always, in the back of his mind, there was that name-Stuart H. Locke. It was the flame that kept him alive, the only thing that mattered.
Chapter 3
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the village in a deep orange glow, Azam stood silently at the edge of his village, the cool evening breeze tousling his wild curls. His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on the distance, where the world beyond his broken home awaited. The name tag of Stuart H. Locke was a cold weight in his palm, a constant reminder of the mission that had consumed him for over a decade.
As he turned to leave, a voice echoed from the shadows behind him. “Leaving, are you?”
Azam whipped around, his hand instinctively reaching for the knife at his belt. Emerging from the gloom was an old man, his face lined with the weariness of many hard years. It was Qadir, the village’s only remaining elder, a man who had seen too much but spoke too little.
“You’re still here,” Azam said, relaxing slightly but not dropping his guard. “I thought everyone else had left.”
Qadir nodded slowly, his eyes searching Azam’s face. “I’ve seen many come and go, boy. But I’ve stayed because this land, despite its scars, is my home. And it seems you’re ready to leave it behind.”
Azam clenched his jaw. “There’s nothing left for me here. Nothing but memories I want to forget.”
Qadir sighed, stepping closer. “Forgetting won’t be as easy as you think. The past has a way of following you, no matter how far you run.”
“I’m not running,” Azam shot back, his voice cold. “I’m hunting. The man who did this… who took everything from me… I’ll find him. And I’ll make him pay.”
The old man regarded him with a look that was both sorrowful and resigned. “Revenge is a dangerous path, Azam. It consumes the soul until there’s nothing left but bitterness. I’ve seen it happen. Is that what you want for yourself?”
Azam’s eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t have anything else, Qadir. They took it all. My family, my home, my childhood. What else is there for me?”
“There’s always something else,” Qadir said gently, though his words carried the weight of a warning. “You could rebuild, find peace, perhaps even forgive.”
“Forgive?” Azam spat the word like it was poison. “How can you even suggest that? After everything they did. After everything he did?”
Qadir met his gaze, his voice calm but firm. “Forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting, Azam. It means freeing yourself from the chains of hatred. You think finding this man, Stuart H. Locke, and killing him will bring you peace? It won’t. It will just create more darkness inside you.”
Azam shook his head, his resolve unshaken. “You’re wrong. I don’t want peace. I want justice.”
Qadir let out a long breath. “Justice or vengeance, boy? There’s a difference. But I see you’ve already made up your mind.” He stepped back, his figure blending into the shadows. “Just remember, when you walk this path, it’s not just others who will suffer. You might lose yourself along the way.”
Azam stared at the old man, his heart pounding with the familiar mix of anger and sorrow. “I lost myself a long time ago, Qadir. Now, there’s only one thing left to do.”
Without waiting for a response, Azam turned his back on the village and walked away, the weight of the name tag heavy in his fist. The night swallowed him, and with it, any remnants of the boy who had once trembled beneath the floorboards.
Chapter 4
Azam sat at a corner table in a dimly lit restaurant, the smell of fried food and cheap spices lingering in the air. The place was far from reputable, a favourite for those who preferred to keep their dealings out of sight. The faded red tablecloths, stained from years of neglect, matched the dull hum of conversation that filled the room. This was where he would meet Aljani, the smuggler who promised to get him across the border.
The door swung open with a creak, and a short, stocky figure slipped into the restaurant. Aljani moved with a certain slithery grace, his eyes darting around the room, taking in every detail with a calculated sharpness. His greasy black hair was slicked back, and his thin moustache twitched as he flashed a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
Azam watched as Aljani spotted him and slithered his way over, his small, nimble fingers already rubbing together in anticipation. When he reached the table, Aljani pulled out the chair opposite Azam and sat down with a theatrical flourish, leaning in close as if they were old friends meeting for a casual meal.
“Azam, my friend,” Aljani began, his voice low and oily. “I trust you’ve been well?”
Azam’s face remained impassive, his eyes cold and unreadable. “Let’s get to business,” he said, his tone flat.
Aljani’s smile widened, revealing a row of yellowing teeth. “Ah, straight to the point. I admire that in a man. So, you want to cross the border, yes? Not an easy task these days, but for the right price, I can make it happen.”
Azam reached down beside him and pulled up a large, worn duffel bag, placing it on the table with a heavy thud. He unzipped it just enough to reveal bundles of cash, neatly stacked and secured with rubber bands. The sight of the money made Aljani’s eyes gleam with greed.
“This should cover it,” Azam said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Aljani’s fingers itched to grab the bag, but he restrained himself, knowing better than to rush a deal with someone like Azam. Instead, he leaned back, feigning nonchalance. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said, his voice dripping with false charm. “But I must warn you, the journey won’t be pleasant. Not at all.”
Azam’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not looking for comfort. Just results.”
Aljani chuckled, a sound that was more of a hiss than a laugh. “Oh, you’ll get results, my friend. But be prepared—this isn’t a luxury cruise. You’ll be traveling with others, and it won’t be pretty.”
Azam gave a curt nod, his gaze never leaving Aljani’s face. “When do we leave?”
“Tonight,” Aljani replied, leaning in closer. “We meet at the old freight yard, just outside the city. There’s a train that leaves after midnight, carrying market produce to the docklands in the next country. You’ll be in one of the cargo cars, hidden among the goods. It’s not exactly first class, but it’s discreet.”
Without a word, Azam stood up, grabbing the duffel bag and tossing it to Aljani. The smuggler caught it with surprising agility for a man of his build, his fingers immediately closing around the handles with a possessive grip. He weighed the bag in his hands, already imagining the profits it would bring him.
Chapter 5
The night was thick with mist as Azam made his way to the old freight yard. The sound of rusted metal creaking in the wind and the distant hoot of an owl were the only noises in the otherwise still air. He approached the yard with the same steely determination that had carried him through the last several years, his mind focused solely on the task ahead.
When he arrived, Aljani was already there, standing beside a dilapidated freight car. The smuggler looked even more dishevelled in the dim light, his eyes darting around as if checking for any unwanted observers.
“Right on time,” Aljani whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. “Get in. Keep your head down, and don’t draw attention to yourself.”
Azam climbed into the car, immediately hit by the stench of rotting produce mixed with the acrid smell of sweat and fear. Inside, the space was cramped, with boxes and crates stacked haphazardly, leaving just enough room for the huddled figures of other passengers—refugees, desperate souls like himself, seeking a way out.
In the corner of the car was a grim sight: a makeshift toilet—a battered metal bucket with a ragged curtain hanging loosely around it. The curtain provided only the barest semblance of privacy, swaying slightly with the movement of the train as it began to roll forward.
Azam settled into a spot near the back of the car, his back against the cold metal wall. He drew his knees up to his chest and stared ahead, his face a mask of indifference. The others in the car avoided his gaze, sensing the darkness that clung to him like a shroud.
The hours passed slowly, the train rattling over the tracks as it made its way toward the border. The atmosphere in the car grew increasingly oppressive, the stench worsening as the bucket filled, and the tension among the passengers mounted. There were no conversations, just the occasional whispered prayer or muffled sob.
Azam remained silent, his mind a fortress against the filth and despair around him. He had endured worse, far worse, and this was just another step on the path he had chosen. The train ride was disgusting, but it was necessary.
As the train crossed the border under the cover of darkness, the relief in the car was palpable, but Azam’s expression remained unchanged. He knew this was just the beginning. The journey was far from over, and the real challenge was yet to come.
When the train finally slowed to a halt at the docklands in the neighbouring country, Aljani appeared again, this time with a smirk of satisfaction. “Welcome to your new life,” he said, his voice dripping with insincerity. “I’d say it’s all uphill from here, but…well, that wouldn’t be honest, now, would it?”
Azam stepped off the train without a word, not even glancing back at the other passengers. The air was fresher here, but it did little to lift the weight of what lay ahead.
As he walked away from the freight yard, Aljani called after him, “If you ever need my services again, you know where to find me!”
Azam didn’t respond. He was already moving forward, his eyes set on the distant horizon, where the West Lands—and the next phase of his plan—awaited.
Chapter 6
The night had fully descended by the time Azam reached the docks. The air was cold and damp, the mist rolling in from the sea, clinging to his skin like a second layer. For most, the biting chill and the oppressive darkness would have been discomforting, but for Azam, it was like coming home. The shadows were his sanctuary, the cold a familiar companion that dulled the edge of whatever remained of his humanity.
He made his way through the labyrinth of shipping containers and rusted cranes, his steps silent on the wet ground. The dock workers, few and far between at this hour, paid him no mind. They were used to seeing people like him-desperate, hollow-eyed refugees willing to do anything to get out, to escape whatever nightmares had driven them here. Azam’s face was just another in the sea of lost souls, and that was exactly how he wanted it.
Eventually, he reached the container that would be his next prison for the journey ahead. It was a large, rusted metal box, the door slightly ajar, revealing the dim, stuffy interior. He could hear the low murmurs of the other families, individuals, all crowded together in the darkness, waiting for the ship to take them to the West Lands. The smell of sweat and fear was almost overpowering, but Azam didn’t hesitate. He slipped inside, finding a spot near the back where he could keep an eye on the rest of the container.
The door creaked shut behind him, sealing them all in. The air was thick and heavy, every breath a struggle. In one corner, a crude hole had been cut into the metal floor, barely covered by a tattered piece of cloth. It was meant for relieving oneself, but it only added to the stench that already filled the cramped space. Azam ignored it, his senses focused on the people around him. They were nothing to him-just bodies, obstacles he might have to overcome if they got in his way.
As he settled in, drawing his bag close to his chest, a family huddled nearby caught his attention. The father, a tired- looking man with hollow cheeks, was whispering soothing words to his wife and two children, trying to comfort them as the ship’s engine roared to life. Azam watched them with cold, calculating eyes. Once, the sight of a family might have stirred something in him-a memory, a pang of loss-but now, all it did was ignite a spark of anger deep within him. They were fools, clinging to the illusion of safety, of happiness. It was fleeting, and they were too stupid to see it.
He turned away, closing his eyes and letting the gentle rocking of the ship lull him into a light sleep. The darkness here, the suffocating closeness, was almost comforting. It wrapped around him like a blanket, blocking out the world, blocking out everything but his singular focus: the mission. He had nothing else. No one else. No emotions to hold him back.
Hours passed-or maybe it was days; in the blackness of the container, time had no meaning. Azam remained still, barely moving, conserving his energy. But then, in the midst of his slumber, something changed. A whisper of movement, a shift in the air that was out of place.
Azam’s eyes snapped open, his senses immediately alert. He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, but his hand slowly inched toward the knife hidden in his waistband.
Two men were crouched near him, their hands reaching for the bag clutched against his chest. They were scrawny, desperate looking, their eyes gleaming with the same grad and hunger that had driven them this metal box. “Take it slowly,” one of them whispered to the other, his voice barely audible over the ship’s engines. “He’s out cold. Just grab it and we’re done.”
Azam’s grip tightened on the knife’s handle, his heart rate steady and controlled. He waited until the second man’s hand brushed against the bag before he struck.
In a blur of motion, Azam’s knife was out, the blade flashing in the dim light as it plunged into the first man’s throat. The man gasped, a wet, choking sound escaping his lips as blood sprayed from the wound. The second man barely had time to react before Azam was on him, his movements precise and deadly.
“Wait! Please!” the second man hissed, his voice trembling as he backed away, his hands raised in a futile attempt to ward off the inevitable.
Azam didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, driving the knife into the man’s chest, twisting it as the life drained from his eyes. He yanked the blade free, wiping it clean on the man’s tattered shirt before slipping it back into his waistband.
The entire interaction had taken mere seconds, but the effect was immediate. The rest of the refugees in the container had fallen silent, their eyes wide with fear as they stared at Azam. No one dared to move, no one dared to speak. They had seen what he was capable of, and they knew better than to cross him.
Azam returned to his spot, his expression as cold and unfeeling as before. He closed his eyes again, the darkness welcoming him back. The bodies of the two men lay where they had fallen, ignored and forgotten by everyone around them. In the suffocating blackness, they were just another part of the landscape.
When the ship finally docked in the West Lands, the refugees were herded off the vessel like cattle. Azam emerged from the container, blinking against the harsh light of day, the damp coldness of the previous night still clinging to him. The others around him looked relieved to have survived the journey, but not Azam. His eyes were sharp, his mind focused. The West Lands were vast, and the search has only begun.
Chapter 7
The sun was just beginning to warm the streets when Stuart unlocked the doors to his bar. Inside, the familiar scent of wood polish and faint traces of last night’s beer greeted him. He stepped behind the counter, flipping on the lights and beginning his routine of setting up for the day. The quiet of the early morning was comforting, a time when he could enjoy the peace before the daily hustle began.
As he finished stocking the fridge with cold drinks, the sound of the front door opening caught his attention. It was Sam, his bartender, a tall, lanky guy in his late twenties with a perpetual smile and an easy-going nature.
“Morning, boss,” Sam said, heading straight for the coffee machine. “Another beautiful day in paradise, huh?”
Stuart chuckled. “Morning, Sam. How’s everything?”
Sam grinned as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Can’t complain. Wife’s got me on some kind of juice cleanse, though. Almost didn’t make it through the weekend.”
“Juice cleanse, huh?” Stuart raised an eyebrow, amused. “Good luck with that.”
“Yeah, I’ll need it,” Sam replied, taking a sip of his coffee. “So, what’s the plan for today?”
“Pretty much the usual,” Stuart said, wiping down the counter. “But I wanted to talk to you about something. I’m thinking of having a barbecue this weekend at my place. Just something casual thought it’d be nice to get everyone together outside of work for a change. You in?”
Sam’s face lit up. “Absolutely. You know I never say no to free food. Who else is coming?”
“Pretty much the whole crew,” Stuart said. “I’m inviting Jen and her husband, Mike’s already on board, and I figured you could give the others a heads-up today.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sam said, already pulling out his phone to send a message to the group chat. “What can I bring?”
“Just yourself,” Stuart said with a smile. “I’ll handle the rest. Got some steaks ready to go, and I’ll throw in a few veggie options, so your wife doesn’t ban you from eating solid food.”
Sam laughed. “I’ll tell her to pack her best quinoa salad.”
Just then, Jen, the bar’s head waitress, walked in, her auburn hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She gave them both a wave as she dropped her bag behind the counter.
“Morning, guys,” she said, grabbing an apron from the hook. “What’s this I hear about a barbecue?”
“Stuart’s hosting one this weekend,” Sam answered before Stuart could speak. “We’re all invited.”
Jen’s eyes widened with excitement. “Oh, that sounds great! I’ll definitely be there. You need me to bring anything, Stuart?”
“Just yourselves,” Stuart said. “I want you all to relax for a change. You guys do enough around here.”
“Well, count me in,” Jen said, tying the apron around her waist. “I’ll let Mike know too. He loves a good barbecue.”
Stuart nodded, pleased to see the enthusiasm from his staff. “Great. Let’s just get through the week, and then we can all kick back a little.”
As they continued with their tasks, the bar slowly came to life, the quiet morning giving way to the usual banter and clatter of setting up for the day. Stuart found himself looking forward to the weekend, a rare chance to unwind with the people who had become like an extended family to him.
Around mid-morning, as the first few customers trickled in, Stuart noticed the television in the corner flash with a “breaking news” alert. At first, he ignored it, but something about the urgency in the reporter’s voice caught his attention. He glanced up, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
“Hold on a second,” Stuart muttered, walking over to the TV and turning up the volume. The room fell silent as Sam and Jen noticed his reaction and turned to see what had caught his attention.
“…reports coming in of an explosion at a local school. Details are still scarce, but emergency services are on the scene. The school is currently on lockdown…”
Stuart’s heart dropped as the camera panned to a familiar building. His throat tightened, and the world seemed to blur around him.
“No,” he whispered, feeling a chill run down his spine. “That’s… that’s Lily’s school.”
“What?” Jen said, her voice full of shock as she moved closer to the TV. “Oh my God, Stuart…”
Stuart didn’t hear her. His hand was already fumbling for his phone, his mind racing. He called Evelyn, his fingers trembling as he waited for her to pick up.
“Stuart?” Evelyn’s voice was tense, as if she already knew something was wrong.
“It’s Lily’s school,” he said, his voice tight. “There’s been an explosion. I’m heading over there now.”
“I’m leaving work,” Evelyn replied, her voice shaking. “I’ll meet you there.”
He hung up without another word, the reality of the situation crashing down on him. He grabbed his keys from the counter, his movements quick and precise.
“I have to go,” he said to Sam and Jen, his voice strained but controlled. “It’s Lily’s school. I need to be there.”
“Go,” Sam said, his normally easy-going demeanour replaced by serious concern. “We’ve got things covered here, Stuart. Just go.”
Jen reached out and squeezed Stuart’s arm as he passed. “We’ll be thinking of you, Stuart. Keep us updated, okay?”
Stuart nodded curtly, not trusting himself to speak. He rushed out of the bar, his thoughts only on getting to the school as quickly as possible.
The drive felt endless, even though he pushed the speed limit the entire way. His mind was a whirlwind of fears and worst-case scenarios. When he finally reached the school, the sight of the chaos—police, worried parents, and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles—only intensified the dread building inside him.
He parked the car haphazardly and bolted toward the school, his eyes scanning the crowd frantically for any sign of his daughter. The police were doing their best to manage the growing crowd, but the atmosphere was tense and desperate.
Stuart pushed through the throng of anxious parents; his voice barely controlled as he approached an officer. “My daughter’s in there—Lily Locke. What’s happening? Is she okay?”
The officer shook her head slightly, keeping her tone calm. “Sir, we’re still assessing the situation. We’re starting to release the children, but it’s going to take some time. Please, try to stay calm.”
Every minute felt like an hour. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Stuart saw a group of children being led out of the school by their teachers. His heart nearly stopped when he spotted Lily among them. She looked shaken, her face pale, but she was walking and seemed unhurt. Stuart’s breath caught in his throat as he pushed forward, calling out her name.
“Lily! Over here!”
Lily’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice, and when she saw him, she broke into a run, her small frame barrelling into his arms. Stuart held her tightly, relief washing over him in waves.
“Dad,” Lily choked out, tears streaming down her face. “I was so scared.”
Stuart stroked her hair, his voice trembling as he tried to soothe her. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I’m here.”
He didn’t let go for a long time, just holding her close, feeling her warmth against him, a stark contrast to the cold fear that had gripped him moments earlier.
Eventually, he pulled back slightly, looking down at her. “Did you see anything, Lily? Do you know what happened?”
Lily shook her head, sniffling. “No… we were outside. Then there was a loud bang, and the teachers made us get down. They wouldn’t let us back in.”
Stuart nodded, hugging her close again. His eyes scanned the crowd for Evelyn, and he spotted her hurrying toward them, her face a mix of relief and fear. When she reached them, she pulled both of them into a tight embrace, tears welling up in her eyes.
Stuart kissed the top of Lily’s head, his heart still pounding. “She’s okay, Evie. She’s okay.”
Evelyn nodded, holding them both as if she never wanted to let go. “Thank God,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
As the crowd began to thin and more children were reunited with their parents, the tension in the air slowly began to dissipate. But even as they headed back to the car, Stuart couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still very wrong. The authorities were keeping quiet. But for now, all that mattered was that his family was safe.
Chapter 8
Azam stood at the edge of a small, run-down park, the early evening shadows stretching long across the patchy grass. The park was a forgotten corner of the city, far from the prying eyes of the affluent suburbs and bustling downtown. It was the perfect place for a discreet meeting. His eyes scanned the area, taking in the few people scattered around—a couple of teenagers loitering near a rusted swing set, an elderly man walking his dog, and then, near the far end of the park, a man sitting alone on a bench.
The man was dressed in nondescript clothes, his face hidden beneath a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He looked up briefly as Azam approached, then returned his gaze to the ground, as if uninterested. But Azam knew better; this was the contact he had been directed to; a man known for obtaining information—if the price was right.
Azam didn’t hesitate. He walked over to the man, his footsteps silent, and stopped a few feet away. The man didn’t look up.
“You’re late,” the man said, his voice low and gravelly, still not making eye contact.
Azam ignored the comment, pulling a thick envelope from the inside of his jacket. “I’m here now. Let’s get this done.”
The man finally looked up, his eyes narrowing as they flicked to the envelope in Azam’s hand. “You bring the cash?”
Azam nodded, tossing the envelope onto the bench beside the man. “Everything we agreed on. Now, where’s the information?”
The man didn’t reach for the envelope immediately. Instead, he stood up slowly, slipping the envelope into his coat pocket before jerking his head toward a battered old sedan parked at the edge of the park.
“Let’s talk in the car,” he said, already moving toward it.
Azam followed without a word. They reached the car, and the man unlocked the doors, sliding into the driver’s seat. Azam got in on the passenger side, closing the door quietly behind him. The interior of the car smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and old leather, but Azam paid it no mind. His focus was solely on the man beside him.
The man pulled out a small laptop from under the seat and set it on his lap. He powered it on, the screen casting a faint glow in the dim interior. “You’re looking for someone named Stuart Locke, right?” the man asked, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard.
“Yes,” Azam replied, his voice cold and direct. “I need to know where he lives, where he works—everything.”
The man nodded; his eyes glued to the screen as he searched through his files. “Locke… Locke… Ah, here we go.”
He turned the laptop slightly, so Azam could see. The screen displayed a profile—Stuart’s profile. There was a recent photograph, taken from some public event, along with details about his life: his address in the suburbs, the bar he owned, even information about his wife and children.
“This is everything I could find on him,” the man said, scrolling through the data. “He lives in a quiet neighbourhood, works at his bar most days, and from what I can gather, his wife’s a solicitor, and he’s got two kids—a teenage son and a younger daughter.”
Azam’s eyes narrowed as he studied the information. The image of Stuart’s face, older now but still recognisable, sent a wave of cold resolve through him. “And you’re sure this is accurate?”
The man shot him a look. “I don’t do sloppy work. This is as accurate as it gets. But if you’re planning something, you should know this guy’s got a past. Ex-military, Special Corps. He’s not someone to take lightly.”
Azam’s lips curled into a slight, humourless smile. “I’m counting on that.”
The man shrugged, clearly uninterested in whatever Azam’s motivations were. “Your business is your own. I’ve given you what you need. If you want anything more, it’ll cost extra.”
Azam glanced at the man, then back at the screen. “This is enough for now.”
The man nodded and shut the laptop, sliding it back under the seat. “Good doing business with you,” he said, his tone indifferent as if they had just completed a mundane transaction.
Azam opened the car door, stepping out into the cool evening air. He paused, leaning down to look back at the man. “You never saw me,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet threat.
The man didn’t flinch. “I don’t remember half the people I deal with. You’re no different.”
Azam straightened up, satisfied with the answer, and closed the car door. He walked away without looking back, his mind already focused on the next steps. He had what he needed. Stuart Locke’s life was now an open book to him, and he would use every page to destroy the man who had ruined his.
As Azam disappeared into the gathering darkness, the man in the car watched him go, his expression unreadable. He had dealt with all kinds of people in his line of work, but something about this one—something about the way Azam moved, the look in his eyes—made him glad the transaction was over.
Chapter 9
Stuart was jolted awake by the shrill ring of his phone piercing the quiet of the night. He fumbled for it on the bedside table, his heart pounding from the sudden disturbance. Evelyn stirred beside him, half-asleep, murmuring something incoherent.
“Hello?” Stuart’s voice was thick with sleep, but there was an edge of alertness creeping in as he answered the call.
“Mr. Locke?” The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, urgent. “This is Captain Reynolds with the fire department. I’m afraid there’s been an incident at your bar.”
Stuart’s heart skipped a beat. He sat up in bed, fully awake now. “What happened?”
“There’s been an explosion, sir,” Captain Reynolds said carefully. “It appears to have been caused by a gas leak. The building has sustained significant damage, but fortunately, no one was inside at the time.”
For a moment, Stuart couldn’t speak. The words didn’t seem real, like he was still caught in some lingering nightmare. But the sinking feeling in his gut told him otherwise.
“A gas leak?” Stuart finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “How… how bad is it?”
“Bad, sir,” the captain replied, his tone regretful. “The firesunder control now, but the bars pretty much destroyed. I’m sorry, Mr. Locke. We’ll need you to come down to the scene when you can.”
Stuart sat there, staring blankly at the wall as the words sank in. Evelyn, now fully awake, noticed the look on his face and placed a hand on his arm.
“Stuart, what’s wrong? What happened?”
He turned to her, still in shock. “It’s the bar… it’s gone. There was an explosion—some kind of gas leak.”
Evelyn’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh my God… Stuart, I’m so sorry.”
He nodded numbly, the reality of the situation slowly settling in. “I need to go there. I need to see it.”
Evelyn squeezed his hand. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” Stuart said, shaking his head as he pulled on a pair of jeans. “Stay here with the kids. I’ll handle it.”
Evelyn looked like she wanted to argue, but she saw the determination in his eyes and nodded. “Okay. Be careful, Stuart.”
He kissed her quickly and then hurried out of the bedroom, grabbing his keys and jacket on the way. The drive to the bar felt surreal, his mind a whirlwind of emotions—shock, disbelief, anger. Just two days ago, it had been the explosion at Lily’s school, and now this. It felt like the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on him.
When he arrived at the scene, it was like stepping into a nightmare. The area was cordoned off with yellow tape, and fire trucks were still parked outside, their lights flashing in the darkness. The bar—his bar—was a smouldering ruin, the once sturdy walls blackened and crumbling.
Stuart stood there, staring at the wreckage, unable to process the sight before him. This was the place he had poured his heart into, the place where he had found some semblance of peace after years of turmoil. And now it was gone, reduced to rubble in the blink of an eye.
“Mr. Locke?”
Stuart turned to see Captain Reynolds approaching, his expression sombre. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir. We’ve done all we can, but the damage is extensive. It’s likely a total loss.”
Stuart nodded, though he barely registered the words. “You said it was a gas leak?”
The captain nodded. “That’s what it looks like. We’ll conduct a full investigation, of course, but from what we can tell, it was an accident.”
“An accident,” Stuart repeated, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. Two explosions in two days—one at his daughter’s school, and now this. What were the odds?
“It’s just… it’s hard to believe,” Stuart said quietly. “I had that place inspected just a few months ago. Everything was fine.”
“I understand, sir,” Captain Reynolds said sympathetically. “But these things can happen. Gas leaks can be unpredictable.”
Stuart’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Yeah. Unpredictable.”
The captain gave him a moment before continuing. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in. We’ll keep you updated on the investigation, but for now, you should focus on taking care of yourself and your family.”
Stuart nodded, though the words did little to ease the turmoil in his mind. “Thanks, Captain.”
With that, the captain left Stuart alone to process the wreckage of his livelihood. He stood there for a long time, staring at the remains of what had once been his pride and joy, trying to make sense of it all. But the more he thought about it, the more uneasy he felt.
Two explosions in two days, both so close to him and his family. The logical part of his mind told him it was just a terrible coincidence, but another part of him—the part honed by years of military service—wasn’t so sure. His instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong, that this wasn’t just bad luck.
But who would do this? And why?
As the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Stuart finally tore his eyes away from the ruins of his bar. There were too many questions, and not enough answers. But one thing was certain—he wasn’t going to let this go. He would find out what had really happened, no matter what it took.
With a final glance at the smouldering wreckage, Stuart turned and walked back to his car. The road ahead was uncertain, but he was no stranger to adversity. He had fought battles before, and he was ready to fight this one, too.
Even if he didn’t know who—or what—he was up against yet.
Chapter 10
For Azam, this was just the beginning. He knew where Stuart lived, where he worked, and who he loved. And soon, Stuart would know what it felt like to lose everything. The game had begun, and Azam had no intention of stopping until it was finished.
Azam sat in the shadows of a narrow alley, the damp night air clinging to his skin like a second layer. His clothes were worn, his hair matted and unkempt, but his eyes—those cold, steely eyes—remained sharp and focused. He had been living rough since he arrived in the West Lands, moving from place to place, keeping a low profile as he closed in on his target. It was a far cry from the life he had imagined for himself as a boy, but that life had been shattered long ago. Now, there was only the hunt.
The city was vast, a sprawling labyrinth of streets and suburbs, but Azam had a gift for finding what he was looking for. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out the general area where Stuart lived—nice, peaceful, and the perfect place for a man to hide from his past. But Stuart couldn’t hide from him. Azam had spent years preparing for this moment, learning how to survive, how to fight, how to blend in with the shadows. Now, it was time to make his move.
He had started by planting the decoy bomb at the local school. It was small, designed to cause fear and confusion, not casualties. He didn’t want to harm the children; they were just pawns in his game. The bomb was meant to draw Stuart out, to make him vulnerable, and it had worked. Azam had watched from a distance as Stuart arrived at the school, his face a mask of fear and concern. It had been years since Azam had seen him, but he recognised him instantly. The sight of Stuart, so close yet so unaware, sent a surge of cold satisfaction through his veins. This was the man who had taken everything from him, and now Azam would return the favour.
He followed Stuart from the school, staying just out of sight, learning his routines, discovering where he lived, where he worked. It didn’t take long to gather the information he needed. Stuart was careful, but not careful enough. He still believed he was just a man with a past, not a target. Azam intended to show him just how wrong he was.
The bar was the next step. Stuart’s pride and joy, a place where he had invested time, money, and effort. Azam had seen the way Stuart’s face lit up when he talked to his staff, the way he moved through the space with a sense of ownership and pride. It made Azam’s skin crawl with contempt. Stuart didn’t deserve happiness, not after what he had done. Azam would take it all from him, piece by piece.
That night, Azam slipped into the bar with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years avoiding detection. The place was quiet, empty, and Azam moved through the familiar smells of wood polish and stale beer with a calculated calm. He found the gas valves easily enough, turning them on full, the hiss of escaping gas a quiet prelude to the destruction that would follow.
He walked out of the bar, his footsteps silent on the cold pavement, and turned back to look at the building one last time. There was no hesitation in his movements as he struck a match, holding the small flame in his hand for a moment, watching it dance in the night air. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent the match spinning through the air, landing inside the open door of the bar.
The explosion ripped through the night with a deafening roar, the force of it knocking Azam back a step. He felt the heat on his face, smelled the acrid stench of burning wood and chemicals, but his expression remained impassive. The bar was engulfed in flames, the fire spreading quickly, consuming everything in its path.
Azam watched the destruction for a moment, a sense of grim satisfaction settling over him. The bar was gone, reduced to nothing more than a smouldering ruin. Stuart would wake up to the news that his precious bar was gone, and that was just the beginning. Azam wasn’t done—not by a long shot.
He turned and walked away from the scene, disappearing into the darkness of the city. There was still much to do, but Azam was patient. He would make Stuart suffer, take everything from him until there was nothing left but a broken shell of a man. The game had only just begun, and Azam intended to win.
Chapter 11
Stuart had just returned home, the weight of the night’s events still pressing heavily on his mind. The house was quiet—Evelyn and the kids were still asleep, unaware of the full extent of what had happened. He moved through the house in a daze, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of anger, confusion, and grief. The bar had been more than just a business to him; it was his way of moving forward, of finding peace. Now, it was gone, and with it, a piece of the life he had tried so hard to build.
He was lost in thought when a sudden, firm knock at the door jolted him back to reality. Stuart frowned, glancing at the clock. It was barely dawn—who could be at his door at this hour? His instincts, honed from years in the military, kicked in immediately. He moved to the door cautiously, peering through the peephole.
His breath caught in his throat. Standing on the porch, dressed in civilian clothes but unmistakably carrying the bearing of a soldier, was a man he hadn’t seen in years—Lieutenant Colonel Martin Havers, his commanding officer from his days in the Special Corps.
Stuart quickly unlocked the door and opened it, his mind racing. “Lieutenant Colonel Havers?” he said, unable to hide his surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Havers offered a tight smile, his eyes sharp and assessing as they swept over Stuart. “It’s been a long time, Locke,” he said, his voice carrying the same authoritative edge it always had. “Mind if I come in?”
“Of course,” Stuart replied, stepping aside to let him in. His mind was still reeling—why was Havers here? After all these years, and especially now, on the heels of everything that had happened.
They moved into the living room, where the first rays of dawn were beginning to filter through the curtains. Havers glanced around the room, his expression unreadable, before turning back to Stuart.
“Nice place,” he remarked, though his tone was more out of habit than genuine interest. “You’ve done well for yourself, Stuart.”
“Thanks,” Stuart replied, still trying to process the sudden appearance of his old superior. “But what’s this about? Why are you here?”
Havers sighed, taking a seat on the edge of the couch. “I wish this were just a social visit, Stuart, but I’m afraid it’s not. There’s something you need to know.”
Stuart’s heart began to race again, his unease growing. “What is it?”
“We’ve received intelligence,” Havers began, his tone now deadly serious. “Someone is looking for you, Stuart. We don’t know who they are yet or why they’re interested, but the interest is intense. My contacts picked up some chatter, and your name came up. It’s enough to raise alarms.”
Stuart stared at him, the weight of the lieutenant colonel’s words sinking in. “Someone’s looking for me? Why? I’ve been out of the game for years, Martin. I run a bar now. I’m nobody.”
Havers held his gaze, his expression grim. “You were never just ‘nobody,’ Stuart. You were one of the best, and that kind of past has a way of catching up with you. Whoever this is, they know who you are, and they’re trying to find you for a reason. I don’t like the timing, especially with what just happened at your daughter’s school and then your bar.”
The mention of the explosions sent a fresh wave of dread through Stuart. “You think it’s connected?”
Havers leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing. “I can’t say for sure, but it’s a hell of a coincidence if it’s not. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Stuart felt his stomach churn. “So, what do I do? You know I can’t just upend my life based on a hunch.”
Havers nodded. “I know. But I also know you’re smart enough not to ignore a warning when it’s given. You need to be vigilant, Stuart. Keep your eyes open. Watch your back. And if I were you, I’d consider sending your family away for a while—maybe to stay with your in-laws or somewhere safe, just until we figure out what’s going on.”
Stuart’s immediate instinct was to resist the idea. His family was his life, and the thought of sending them away felt like admitting there was something to fear. But the look in Havers’ eyes told him this wasn’t a suggestion made lightly.
“I’ll think about it,” Stuart said finally, his voice tight. “But I’m not going to run. Not yet.”
Havers stood up, nodding in understanding. “I wouldn’t expect you to. But promise me you’ll be careful. If you need anything—anything at all—you call me. I’m still connected, and I can pull some strings if necessary.”
Stuart nodded, feeling a mix of gratitude and unease. “Thanks, Martin. I appreciate it.”
Havers reached out and clasped Stuart’s shoulder, his grip firm. “We’ve been through a lot together, Locke. I’m not going to let anything happen to you or your family if I can help it.”
Stuart managed a small, tight smile. “I know. Thanks for the heads-up.”
Havers released his grip and turned toward the door. “I’ll be in touch. And remember—stay sharp.”
With that, he left, the door closing softly behind him. Stuart stood there in the quiet of the early morning, the lieutenant colonel’s words echoing in his mind. Someone was looking for him. Someone who knew who he was and what he had done in the past.
As he turned and looked at the sleeping house—his wife, his children—he felt a surge of protectiveness. He wouldn’t let anything happen to them. Whatever this was, whoever was behind it, he would find out, and he would stop it.
But for now, the immediate concern was Evelyn and the kids. He would talk to her when she woke up, explain what little he could, and see if they could arrange for her and the kids to stay with her parents for a while. Just until he could get a better handle on what was happening.
He wasn’t sure how she would take it, but he knew one thing—he couldn’t afford to take any chances. Not when it came to his family.
Chapter 12
Lieutenant Colonel Martin Havers stared out the window of his study, his sharp eyes fixed on the quiet suburban street below. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture rigid, the image of a man in control. But inside, a storm of thoughts raged. The visit to Stuart earlier that day had been necessary, but not because Havers cared about Stuart’s safety. Stuart was a pawn, just like everyone else Havers had ever commanded. And if that pawn was under threat, it meant the game itself was in jeopardy.
Havers didn’t care about Stuart or his family. He didn’t care about anyone, really, except himself and the legacy he intended to leave behind. Glory was all that mattered glory and power. He had spent his entire career climbing the ranks, not because he believed in some higher cause or duty, but because he craved the recognition, the accolades, the sense of superiority it gave him. War had been his playground, and he had played it with ruthless efficiency.
He had done things—terrible things—that others might call atrocities. But to Havers, they were just strategies. The enemy, the civilians, even his own men—they were all pieces on a board, moved and sacrificed as he saw fit. The idea of mercy, of morality, was laughable to him. War was about winning, and winners wrote the history books. In his eyes, he was a winner, and he intended to stay that way.
But now, someone was stirring up the past, and that was a problem. Not because Havers felt guilt—he had none—but because it threatened the carefully constructed image he had built. He had no intention of letting some ghost from the war destroy the empire he had worked so hard to create.
He turned away from the window, moving toward his desk with calculated precision. The polished wood gleamed under the light, a symbol of his success, of the power he had accumulated. He sat down, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a thin, leather-bound notebook. Inside were names, contacts—people who owed him favours, people who shared his view of the world, people who could be useful if the need arose.
As he flipped through the pages, a cold smile played on his lips. He wasn’t worried about what might come out. He was worried about how it would be handled. If someone was hunting Stuart, it meant there was a risk that they would start looking at others—at him. And that simply couldn’t be allowed.
Stuart was expendable. If the situation called for it, Havers wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate him himself. But for now, Stuart was a loose end that needed tying up, and Havers had every intention of using him as bait to draw out whoever was responsible. He would play the concerned mentor, the caring superior, while in reality, he would be watching every move, ready to strike if necessary.
Havers leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him as he considered his next steps. The truth was, he relished this kind of challenge. It reminded him of the thrill of command, the rush of manipulating events from behind the scenes. There was no room for sentiment, no room for weakness. Glory demanded sacrifice, and Havers had always been willing to sacrifice others to achieve it.
The war had been his greatest stag”, an’ he had played his part to perfection. The lives lost; the villages destroyed—they were just the price of victory. And if anyone tried to drag those memories into the light, he would crush them without hesitation.
With a calm, calculated motion, Havers picked up his phone and dialled a number from the notebook. As it rang, his expression remained cold, his mind already working through the next move.
“Yes,” he said when the line was answered, his voice as smooth and controlled as ever. “I have a situation that requires your expertise. Meet me tomorrow. Usual place.”
He hung up without waiting for a response, placing the phone back on the desk with a sense of finality. The pieces were in motion, and Havers had no intention of losing this game. Not now, not ever.
As he sat in the quiet of his study, the only emotion he allowed himself to feel was a cold satisfaction. He had built his life on the ruins of others, and if more ruins were needed to secure his place, so be it. Glory was all that mattered, and he would achieve it, no matter the cost.
Chapter 13
Havers sat in the dimly lit booth of the dingy diner; his cold eyes fixed on the man across from him. The greasy smell of the place clung to the air, but neither of them paid it any mind. This was business, and Havers had always been able to conduct business anywhere, as long as it served his purposes.
The man sitting opposite him, the informant, was someone Havers had dealt with before-a weasel of a man, skittish and untrustworthy, but useful for certain tasks. He had provided Havers with information in the past, information that had been worth every cent of the cash Havers had paid him. But today, the man’s usefulness was coming to an end.
The informant fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting around the diner as if expecting trouble. He knew who Havers was, what Havers was capable of, and that knowledge alone was enough to keep him on edge.
“I got what you wanted,” the man muttered, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and sliding it across the table. “He was asking about your guy. Paid me well for the details, but he didn’t give me his name. Just wanted to know where to find him.”
Havers picked up the paper, his expression unreadable as he unfolded it. The details were sparse, but they were enough. “What did he look like?” Havers asked, his voice low and measured.
The man licked his lips nervously, trying to recall. “Dark hair, cold eyes, lean build. Looked like he’s seen some rough stuff. Not from around here, I can tell you that. He was… intense, you know? The kind of guy you don’t want to cross.”
Havers’s expression remained impassive, but inside, his mind was working rapidly. He knew the type- someone driven, dangerous, someone with nothing to lose. That made him a threat, and Havers had no tolerance for threats.
“And you’re sure that’s all you know?” Havers asked, his gaze piercing.
“Yeah,” the man replied quickly. “I swear, that’s all I got. Just a description, nothing else. He paid in cash, and he didn’t stick around to chat.”
Havers leaned back in the booth, studying the informant with a cold, calculated gaze. This man had been useful in the past, but now he had become a liability. He had passed on information about Stuart to someone dangerous, and that made him a loose end. Havers had never hesitated to tie up loose ends, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“Good,” Havers said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You’ve been very helpful.”
The informant seemed to relax slightly, but only for a moment. The smile on Havers’s face was devoid of warmth, a predator’s smile, and it sent a shiver down the man’s spine. Before he could react, Havers reached across the table, his movements swift and efficient. He grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him forward, the silenced pistol in his other hand pressing against the informant’s ribs.
The man’s eyes widened in shock and fear, but before he could utter a word, Havers squeezed the trigger. The muffled pop of the gun was barely audible, easily masked by the low hum of conversation in the diner. The man jerked once, his breath hitching, and then he went still, slumping against the table.
Havers let the man’s body slide back into the seat, his face expressionless as he wiped the gun with a handkerchief and tucked it back into his jacket. He glanced around the diner—no one had noticed a thing. The cook was still flipping burgers behind the counter, and the few patrons in the place were too absorbed in their meals to pay any attention to what had just happened.
Havers stood up calmly, leaving a few bills on the table as if nothing was amiss. He moved to the other side of the booth, lifting the man’s limp body with practiced ease. Supporting the dead weight, he guided the informant out of the diner, making it look like he was helping a drunk friend out of the place. No one gave him a second glance.
Once outside, Havers made his way to the man’s old sedan parked in a shadowed corner of the lot. He opened the trunk and unceremoniously dumped the body inside, wiping his hands clean on the same handkerchief before closing the trunk with a quiet thud.
The night was cool and still, the streetlights casting pools of light across the deserted parking lot. Havers took a moment to adjust his coat, his mind already moving on to the next step. The informant had given him a description- a starting point. The man who had asked about Stuart was a threat, but now that Havers had the details, he could begin the hunt.
He drove the sedan to a remote spot outside of town, leaving It there to be discovered later. By the time the authorities found the body, there would be nothing to link it back to him. Havers had done this before, and he would do it again if necessary. He had built his life and his reputation on eliminating threats, on securing his place in the world by any means necessary.
Returning to his own car, Havers pulled out his phone and dialled a secure number. “I’ve got a description,” he said when the call connected. “Run it through the system. I want to know who this man is.”
He ended the call and sent the details to his intelligence team, then waited for the results. When nothing came back- no matches, no identifiable records- Havers wasn’t surprised. This man was clearly off the grid, someone who knew how to cover his tracks. But Havers had dealt with that kind before, and he knew how to flush them out.
The next morning, he called in an artist, someone skilled in creating composite sketches. Using the description provided by the now-dead informant, the artist quickly drew up a rough but accurate image of the man who was hunting Stuart. Havers watched with cold satisfaction as the sketch took shape, the features of the man who dared to challenge him becoming clearer.
When the sketch was complete, Havers handed it to one of his operatives. “Get this out to all our contacts. I want this man found, and I want him neutralised. He thinks he can hunt us-he’s wrong. Now, we hunt him.”
The operative nodded and left to carry out the orders. Havers leaned back in his chair, the cold satisfaction of control settling over him. He had no doubt that this man would be found. And when he was, Havers would eliminate him as efficiently as he had eliminated all the other threats that had crossed his path.
This wasn’t personal. It was just business that Havers had perfected over the years. The hunter would become the hunted, and in the end, Havers would do what he had always done: remove the threat and move on, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.
Chapter 14
Stuart sat in his living room, the faint hum of the television playing in the background, though he wasn’t paying attention to it. His phone lay on the coffee table in front of him, its screen dark and silent, as he anxiously waited for the call from Havers. The visit from his former commanding officer had left him on edge, dredging up memories he had long tried to bury. Someone was after him, but who? And why now, after all these years?
He ran a hand through his greying hair, his thoughts racing. Havers had told him to be vigilant, to protect his family, but he hadn’t provided any real answers. Stuart had spent the past few days trying to piece it together, searching his mind for anything that could explain why he was being targeted. But nothing made sense. He had left the military behind, built a quiet life, and had never wronged anyone in this new chapter. At least, that’s what he told himself.
But the memories of the war refused to stay buried, and the more he thought about it, the more they clawed their way back to the surface. Stuart had always been good at compartmentalising, at locking away the darker parts of his past. He had done what was asked of him, followed orders, pulled the trigger when necessary. He had been a machine, just as they had trained him to be. But there was one memory, one moment, that he could never quite forget—no matter how hard he tried.
It was a day like any other during the war, a mission like any other, deep in the eastern part of the country. They had been ordered to move through a village—a place that Havers had described as “the dictator’s heart.” The orders were clear: burn it, pillage it, leave nothing standing. It was for king and country, Havers had said, for the safety of the West Lands.
Stuart had been a soldier then, trained to obey without question, and he had done just that. But as they moved through the village, he saw something that shook him to his core. The men—his men—pillaging, burning, slaughtering everything in their path. Nothing was out of bounds. Women, children, even the animals—they were all targets. The village became a hellscape of fire and blood, a place where morality had no meaning, and Stuart was right in the middle of it.
He had seen the woman running toward him, her face twisted in desperation, her hands reaching out as if he could somehow stop the madness around them. “You’re supposed to be helping us!”she had screamed, her fingers clawing at his neck, trying to make him see the horror he was a part of. Her words had cut through the chaos, piercing the numbness that had settled over him.
And then, just as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone ashot fired, her body crumpling to the ground at his feet. Stuart had turned to see one of his fellow soldiers smirking, the smoke still curling from the barrel of his gun. Something inside Stuart snapped. He had crossed the battlefield in an instant, smashing the butt of his rifle into the soldier’s face with a force that surprised even him.
“That’s enough,” Havers had said, his voice as cold and emotionless as ever. Stuart had looked at him, seeing nothing in his eyes but a chilling indifference to the carnage around them. And yet, Havers was the one in command, the one who made the decisions, the one Stuart had believed in. Even then, despite the horror of what they had done, Stuart had told himself that this was necessary—that it was for the greater good, for the safety of the West Lands.
But now, sitting in his quiet suburban home, those justifications felt hollow. He could still see the woman’s face, hear her voice, and the crack of the shot that silenced her forever. It was the one order he hadn’t been able to follow without question, the one act of defiance in a war that had stripped him of his humanity.
Stuart couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was happening now was connected to that day, to that moment when he had hesitated, when he had questioned the orders given to him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden vibration of his phone. Stuart snapped out of his reverie, grabbing the phone from the table with a mix of relief and dread. The screen displayed Havers’s name, and for a moment, Stuart hesitated before answering. He didn’t know what he was hoping to hear, but he needed answers.
“Havers,” Stuart said, his voice more strained than he intended. “What have you found out?”
“Stuart,” Havers’s voice came through the line, steady and controlled, as always. “We’re still working on identifying the person who’s after you, but we’ve got some leads. I’m sending a sketch over to you. Take a look and tell me if you recognise him.”
Stuart’s heart pounded as he waited for the image to come through. When his phone pinged with the message, he opened it immediately. The sketch was rough, but the features were distinct—a man with cold eyes, dark hair, and a hardened expression. Stuart stared at the face, trying to place it, but it didn’t trigger any memories. He didn’t recognise the man, but something about the look in his eyes was eerily familiar, a mirror of the anger and resolve Stuart had seen in the mirror during the war.
“I don’t know him,” Stuart admitted, feeling a chill run down his spine. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Havers was silent for a moment before responding. “That’s not necessarily a good thing. It means he’s coming for you specifically, not because of something personal, but because of something bigger. We’re digging into his background, trying to figure out who he is and what his connection to you might be. In the meantime, I need you to stay alert. If you see anything suspicious, call me immediately.”
“Understood,” Stuart replied, though the reassurance in Havers’s voice did little to ease his growing unease.
They exchanged a few more words before Havers ended the call. Stuart sat back, the phone still in his hand, his mind racing. The man in the sketch was coming for him, and whatever the reason, Stuart couldn’t afford to take any chances.
He had believed in Havers once, believed that the atrocities they committed were for a greater good. But the truth was that Stuart wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.
Chapter 15
Stuart woke up in the dim light of early morning, his mind drifting in and out of sleep. The night had been restless, filled with half-remembered dreams of the war, of faces and voices from the past that he had tried so hard to forget. He blinked against the soft glow of dawn creeping through the curtains, trying to shake off the lingering sense of unease that had settled over him since the call from Havers the night before.
For a moment, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts scattered. Then, with a sigh, he decided to get up and splash some water on his face, hoping it would clear the fog in his mind.
As he turned on the faucet and leaned over the sink, he froze. Something glinted in the porcelain bowl beneath the stream of water, catching the light. Stuart’s heart skipped a beat, and he reached out with trembling fingers to pick up the small metal object lying there.
His breath caught in his throat as he stared at it, his skin going cold. It was a dog tag—his dog tag. The name etched into the metal was unmistakable: Stuart H. Locke.
But that wasn’t possible. He had lost this dog tag years ago, during the war, in that cursed village where everything had gone so wrong. He had lost it when that woman had grabbed at his neck, her desperate fingers clawing at him for help he couldn’t give. He had searched for it afterward, but it had vanished, lost in the chaos and destruction that followed.
And yet, here it was, lying in his sink as if it had just materialised out of thin air.
“What the hell…?” Stuart whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the rush of water. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it. How could it be here? Who could have put it there?
He felt a surge of panic and fury, his instincts kicking in. Someone had been in his house—someone who had gone to great lengths to leave a message that Stuart couldn’t ignore. He turned off the water, his heart pounding, and quietly slipped out of the bathroom. He grabbed the baseball bat he kept in the hallway closet, his grip tightening around the handle as he moved silently through the house.
Room by room, Stuart checked the house, his senses on high alert. He pushed open doors, peeked into closets, scanned every shadowy corner, his breath held tight in his chest. But there was no one. No sign of forced entry, no hint of an intruder. The house was still, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
But the dog tag was real. He could feel it’s cold weight in his pocket, a chilling reminder that someone had been here, someone who knew things about his past that no one else should know.
His mind went back to that village, to the moment he had lost the tag. Had someone found it back then? Had they kept it all these years, waiting for the right moment to bring it back to him? And why now? What did they want from him?
There was only one person who might have answers. Stuart hurried back to the bedroom, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and quickly dialled Havers’s number. His hands were shaking as he held the phone to his ear, the dial tone dragging on longer than it should.
Finally, Havers answered, his voice gruff and still thick with sleep. “Stuart? What’s going on?”
“Havers,” Stuart said, trying to keep his voice steady, but the fear and confusion were creeping in. “Something happened. I… I found my dog tag. In my bathroom sink.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line before Havers spoke again, his voice sharper now, fully awake. “Your dog tag?”
“Yeah,” Stuart said, running a hand through his hair as he began pacing the room. “The one I lost in that village. It’s here, Havers, in my house. Someone put it here. Someone who knows about that day.”
Havers was silent for a few seconds, but Stuart could almost hear the wheels turning in his former commander’s head. “This changes things,” Havers finally said, his tone colder, more calculating. “If someone went through the trouble of finding your old dog tag and leaving it for you, they’re not just looking for you—they’re sending a message. This isn’t just about you, Stuart. It’s about something that happened in the war.”
Stuart stopped pacing, the gravity of Havers’s words sinking in. “But who? And why now? I’ve been out of the military for years. Why would someone come after me now?”
“That’s what we need to figure out,” Havers replied, his voice dark and deliberate.
Stuart’s mind raced, flashing back to the faces of the villagers, the smouldering ruins, the bodies in the streets. He had tried to forget, to move on, but now those ghosts were coming back to haunt him.
“We’ll get ahead of this,” Havers said, his tone calm, as if they were discussing a simple military manoeuvre. I’ll have my men run a deeper check on any survivors from that village, anyone who might have a reason to come after you.”
“And what about me?” Stuart asked, the fear now laced with anger. “I’m not going to sit around waiting for this person to come for me.”
“Stay vigilant, and keep that dog tag with you,” Havers instructed. “It’s a clue, a connection to your past. And if this person wants you to remember, then they’ll make themselves known soon enough. When they do, we’ll be ready.”
Stuart nodded, though Havers couldn’t see him. “All right.”
“Good,” Havers said. “I’ll be in touch. And Stuart… don’t hesitate. If this person shows up, you do what you have to do.”
The line went dead, and Stuart was left standing in the middle of his bedroom, the dog tag heavy in his pocket like a piece of lead. His thoughts were a jumbled mess of fear, anger, and confusion, but one thing was clear—whoever was after him wasn’t going to stop. This was someone who knew the darkest chapter of his life, someone who had waited years to make their move.
Stuart looked around the room, at the life he had built, the family he loved, and felt a surge of determination. He wasn’t going to let this ghost from the past take it all away.
Chapter 16
Azam was closing in on his prey. He could feel it. Every step he took brought him closer to Stuart, the man who had become the focus of his life’s mission. Stuart was rattled-Azam could see it in the way he moved, the way he looked over his shoulder, the way he clutched his family closer, thinking that might somehow protect them from the storm that was coming. But it wouldn’t. Azam had made sure of that. He had spent years preparing for this, honing his skills, sharpening his mind into a weapon as deadly as any blade. Now, all that was left was to deliver the final blow.
As he drifted in and out of a light sleep on a bench in a small, overgrown park, Azam’s mind was always working, always planning. He had discovered that this Havers, a name he hadn’t heard before, was somehow connected to Stuart. And that made him a target as well. Azam’s mission was evolving, expanding.
He had started with the intent to destroy one man’s life, but now it seemed there were more who deserved his special brand of justice.
He was determined to take them all out -every last one of them.
The night air was cool and damp, the kind of weather that others might find uncomfortable, but to Azam, it was a comforting embrace. The darkness was his ally, the silence his companion. As he lay there, he listened to the distant sounds of the city, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the occasional car passing by. This park was a forgotten place, much like the ones who used it-a place where the homeless and the lost sought refuge.
But Azam wasn’t lost. He was exactly where he needed to be.
His eyes snapped open when he heard footsteps approaching. They were heavy, purposeful, the kind of footsteps that belonged to someone who thought they had authority. Azam tensed, his senses sharp, his mind instantly alert.
A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, sweeping across the park until it settled on Azam. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just watched as the figure stepped closer.
“You’re not allowed to sleep here,” a gruff voice said, the beam of light now directed at Azam’s face. “This is a public park, not a homeless shelter. Move on.”
Azam slowly sat up, squinting against the harsh light. The man standing before him was a police officer, his uniform neat and pressed, his expression stern. Azam as if he were nothing more than a piece of garbage littering the park.
“Move on,” the officer repeated, his voice edged with impatience. “You can’t stay here.”
Azam stood up, his movements deliberate and controlled. He stared at the officer, his eyes cold and unfeeling. The officer was just another obstacle, another insignificant pawn trying to assert some sort of power over him. Azam could have walked away, could have melted back into the shadows, but he felt a surge of contempt rise within him. This officer, with his badge and his self-righteous attitude, thought he had the right to order him around.
Azam stepped closer, his face calm, his hands relaxed at his sides. The officer tensed, sensing something was wrong, but it was too late Azam moved with deadly precision, his hand flashing out to grab the officer by the throat, squeezing just enough to cut off his breath. The officer’s eyes widened in shock, his hand going for his radio, but Azam was faster. He slammed the officer’s head against the edge of the metal bench, the sharp crack of bone against steel echoing in the night.
The officer slumped to the ground, dazed, his grip on consciousness slipping. Azam crouched down beside him, his voice a low whisper. “You shouldn’t have bothered me.”
With a swift, silent motion, Azam snapped the officer’s neck, the sickening sound of the vertebrae breaking lost in the night. The man’s body went limp, his eyes staring blankly up at the sky. Azam looked down at the corpse, his expression devoid of emotion. The man was just another obstacle removed another problem dealt with.
Azam quickly and efficiently searched the officer’s body, removing any identifying items-the badge, the radio, the gun-before dragging the body toward a nearby manhole cover. He pried it open, the heavy metal scraping against the pavement, and without a moment’s hesitation, he heaved the officer’s body into the dark hole below. The sound of the body hitting the sewer water below was muffled, swallowed by the darkness.
Azam closed the manhole cover, leaving no trace of what had just happened. The officer, a jobsworth who had thought he could impose his will on Azam, was now nothing more than a forgotten corpse in the sewers, where he belonged.
Azam wiped his hands on his pants, feeling no remorse, no guilt. The man had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had chosen to confront Azam, and he had paid the price.
He moved silently through the park, leaving behind no tracks, no signs of his presence. Azam was a ghost, moving from place to place, always one step ahead, always erasing any trace that might lead back to him. He had learned long ago that survival meant being invisible, and he had perfected that skill over the years.
As he disappeared into the night, his thoughts returned to Stuart and Havers. They were his true targets, and nothing would stand in his way. The officer had been a minor inconvenience, but Stuart and Havers-they were the ones who would truly pay for what had been done.
Chapter 17
Havers sat in his office, the dim glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. He had been deep in thought for hours, piecing together the information, making connections, and coming to one unsettling conclusion: whoever was hunting Stuart was someone from their past. Someone from the war. The realisation didn’t surprise him; it was, in fact, somewhat of a relief. At least the threat was focused on Stuart, and not on himself.
Still, Havers couldn’t help but find it darkly amusing. Stuart had always been the one who struggled when things got ugly. He had been a capable soldier, trained by the best, but when the real horrors of war unfolded, Stuart had faltered. Havers had to discipline him more than once for not following orders, for hesitating, for letting some misguided sense of morality get in the way of what needed to be done. War wasn’t a place for moral grandstanding; it was a brutal, unforgiving environment where only the strongest survived.
Havers had been crafted into a machine by the state—paid to follow orders, to execute missions without question. There was no room for a “woke agenda,” no space for a conscience. It was kill or be killed, and in that world, Havers had thrived. He had no patience for men like Stuart, who questioned orders when things got tough. This was war, and in war, there were only winners and losers. The dead didn’t get to question how they died.
As he leaned back in his chair, Havers knew what he had to do. He needed to draw this enemy out, force them to reveal themselves. And Stuart, unwittingly or not, was the perfect bait. Havers had never been sentimental, and he wasn’t about to start now. If using Stuart meant catching the person who threatened his past, his reputation, and his very life, then so be it.
Havers picked up the phone and dialled Stuart’s number. It rang several times before Stuart answered, his voice tense.
“Havers,” Stuart said, the anxiety clear in his voice. “Have you found anything?”
“We’re still working on it,” Havers lied smoothly. “But I have a plan, and I need you to trust me.”
There was a pause. Stuart was silent, clearly wrestling with the fear that had been gnawing at him for days. “What’s the plan?”he asked finally, his voice hesitant.
“I need you to come to my cabin at the edge of town,” Havers said, his tone measured. “It’s isolated, far from any prying eyes. My men will be there, hidden, ready to ambush whoever this is when they show up. We can use you to draw them out, make them think they have you cornered.”
Stuart was quiet for a long moment, and Havers could practically hear the gears turning in his head, the fear mixing with the instincts of the trained soldier he was. Stuart had always been strong, physically and mentally, but fear had a way of crippling even the toughest of men. Havers was counting on that fear to make Stuart compliant.
“You want to use me as bait?” Stuart finally asked, disbelief and a hint of anger in his voice.
“It’s the best way to end this, Stuart,” Havers said, his voice smooth, controlled. “I understand that it’s a lot to ask, but this person is determined. They’ll come for you again, no matter where you are. If we can control the environment, we can control the outcome. My men are the best. They’ll keep you safe.”
Stuart let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know, Havers… This whole thing is insane. I’m not just going to walk into a trap.”
Havers softened his tone, a practiced gesture of manipulation. “Stuart, I wouldn’t ask you to do this if there was another way. You’re special forces, trained to handle situations like this. You’re strong. And you’ll have the advantage—we’ll know they’re coming, and we’ll be ready. This is how we end it.”
There was another long silence, and Havers waited, his patience unwavering. He knew Stuart well enough to understand that the fear and the desire to end this nightmare would ultimately drive him to agree. Havers had always been good at reading people, at knowing how to push just the right buttons to get what he wanted.
“Fine,” Stuart said at last, his voice resigned. “I’ll do it. But this had better work, Havers. I’m trusting you on this.”
“It will work,” Havers replied confidently. “I’ll text you the coordinates and time. Come prepared, but don’t worry—my men will handle the rest.”
They exchanged a few more details before ending the call. As Havers put down the phone, a cold smile curled on his lips. Everything was falling into place. Stuart would unknowingly draw out their enemy, and Havers would be there, ready to eliminate the threat once and for all. The past was catching up, but Havers wasn’t about to let it take him down. He would use Stuart to draw this ghost from the war into the open, and then he would crush it, just like he had crushed every other obstacle in his path.
In the end, Stuart was just another piece on the board, another tool to be used. Havers didn’t care about the man’s fear, his confusion, or his desire for closure. All that mattered was neutralising the threat, ensuring his own survival, and preserving the legacy he had built.
And if Stuart ended up as collateral damage? Well, that was just the cost of war.
Chapter 18
Stuart gripped the steering wheel tightly as he drove through the winding roads leading out of the city, the coordinates Havers had given him running through his mind. The road was quiet, almost eerily so, and the anxiety that had been gnawing at him since he received that dog tag was now a constant, oppressive presence. The plan to use him as bait had seemed insane at first, but as a soldier, he knew the value of a calculated risk. Havers had always been a man with a plan, a man who got things done, and despite his reservations, Stuart had decided to trust him.
The drive wasn’t supposed to take long -just a couple of hours. But only ten minutes into the journey, Stuart felt a sudden, sharp pain in his lower back, so intense that he nearly lost control of the car. He slammed on the brakes, his foot instinctively pressing hard on the pedal as he tried to process what had just happened. A warm, wet sensation began to spread across his back, and when he reached down with a trembling hand, he felt the sticky slickness of blood.
Panic seized him as the realisation hit- he’d been stabbed. The pain was searing, radiating through his body, making it difficult to think, to move. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. He hadn’t seen anyone; he hadn’t heard anything. How could someone have gotten to him?
He frantically reached for the glove box, his hand fumbling to open it and retrieve his gun. But when he pulled it open, his heart sank. The gun was gone. Stuart’s mind was spinning-he had put the gun there himself, hadn’t he? He could’ve sworn he had.
Before he could make sense of it, the driver’s side door was wrenched open, and a powerful force grabbed him, yanking him out of the car and throwing him onto the rough gravel at the side of the road. Stuart hit the ground hard, the impact sending a fresh wave of pain through his already battered body. He gasped for air, trying to regain his bearings, but the pain in his back was overwhelming, making it nearly impossible to focus.
He looked up, his vision blurred from the pain, and saw a tall, skinny man standing over him. The man’s face was emotionless, his movements precise and deliberate. Stuart’s heart pounded in his chest-this was the man from the sketch Havers had sent him, the one who had been hunting him. But in the brief moment he had to study the man’s face, he felt a deepening sense of dread. He didn’t recognise him. There was no familiarity, no hint of why this man might be after him. But the cold efficiency with which the man moved told Stuart everything he needed to knowthis was no ordinary assailant. This man was a professional-a commando, an assassin.
Stuart tried to fight back, but the man was already on him, working quickly. Before he could cry out, the man slapped a strip of gaffer tape over his mouth, silencing him. Stuart struggled weakly, but the blood loss and pain had sapped his strength. The man bound Stuart’s arms and legs with more tape, securing him tightly, leaving no room for escape.
Panic surged through Stuart as the man stood up, towering over him with cold detachment. The assassin glanced at the car, still idling on the road, and without a word, he grabbed Stuart by the collar and dragged him across the rough ground. Stuart’s body screamed in protest, but he was helpless, unable to resist as the man effortlessly hauled him toward the edge of the embankment.
With a final, brutal shove, the man pushed Stuart’s car over the edge. It tumbled down the steep incline, crashing through the underbrush before plunging into the river below. Stuart watched in horror as his car disappeared beneath the dark water, taking with it any trace that he had ever been there.
His mind raced, fear gripping him like a vice. He was a trained soldier, a member of the special forces, but nothing in his training had prepared him for this. This was no battlefield, no mission. This was a personal vendetta, a deadly game that he hadn’t even realised he was a part of until it was too late.
The man turned back to Stuart, his cold, emotionless eyes locking onto his. Stuart struggled against his bindings, trying to free himself, to fight back, but the man was already moving toward him. With a swift, brutal motion, the man brought a heavy object down onto Stuart’s head. The world around him exploded in a burst of pain and light, and then everything went dark.
The last thought that flickered through Stuart’s mind as consciousness slipped away was the image of Havers’s sketch, the face of the man who had been hunting him. Whoever this man was, he had found Stuart, and there was no escaping him now.
As darkness consumed him, Stuart was left with only one haunting realisation: he had walked right into a trap, and this time, there was no one coming to save him.
Chapter 19
Azam stood over Stuart’s limp body in the dimly lit warehouse, the smell of rust and decay heavy in the air. His heart was pounding, not from fear or excitement, but from the raw, unfiltered rage that had been building inside him for years. The blood on his hands felt like justice, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to make Stuart suffer, to hear him scream, to see the fear in his eyes as the realisation of what was happening sank in. This was the man who had been complicit in the massacre of Azam’s family, who had stood by while unspeakable horrors were inflicted on the people he loved. For that, Stuart deserved to suffer.
Stuart lay crumpled on the cold concrete floor, unconscious from the blow to his head. Azam had dragged him here, to this forgotten place on the edge of the city, a place where no one would hear the screams. He had time, and he intended to use every second of it.
He waited, his breath slow and controlled, until he saw signs of life returning to Stuart. The man groaned, his body twitching as he began to stir. Azam didn’t rush. He wanted Stuart to be fully aware of what was happening. Only then would he begin.
As Stuart’s eyes fluttered open, Azam stepped forward, his boots echoing off the walls. The sound seemed to pull Stuart out of the fog of unconsciousness, and when his gaze finally focused, he saw Azam standing over him, a glint of cold malice in his eyes.
“Where… where am I?” Stuart muttered, trying to sit up, but the pain in his back and the fresh wound in his leg made him gasp in agony.
Azam didn’t answer immediately. He let Stuart struggle, savouring the look of confusion and fear that crossed his face. Then, without warning, Azam delivered a sharp, brutal kick to Stuart’s nose. The sound of bones crunching filled the space, followed by Stuart’s scream-a scream that cut through the silence like a knife.
Stuart’s hands instinctively went to his face, blood pouring from his broken nose. The shock and pain were overwhelming, but before he could even process what was happening, Azam reached down and ripped the tape off Stuart’s mouth, the adhesive pulling at his skin.
“What do you want? Who are you? Who sent you?” Stuart shouted, his voice raw with pain and desperation.
Azam chuckled, a sound that seemed foreign even to him. It wasn’t a laugh of joy or amusement; it was the laugh of a man who had been broken long ago, now driven only by the need for revenge.
“You came to my home with your men,” Azam said, his voice low and deadly. “You killed my family! They… they did terrible things to my sister.” His voice cracked, and for a moment, the fury on his face was replaced by grief, the memories crashing down on him with unbearable force. Tears began to flow down his face as the scenes from that day replayed in his mind-scenes of horror, of loss, of unspeakable pain.
Stuart, through his haze of pain and confusion, looked up at Azam. He saw the tears, the raw emotion, and realised that this wasn’t just some random attack. This man had a personal vendetta, something deep and dark that had been festering for years. But Stuart also knew something was wrong.
“You got it wrong!” Stuart shouted, his voice shaking with a mix of fear and desperation. “You’ve got it all wrong!”
Azam’s expression hardened, his hand tightening around the handle of the knife he had brought with him. “How do you explain your dog tag, then? How do you explain it being left at the scene of that massacre?”
Stuart hesitated, the weight of Azam’s words settling over him like a shroud. He had been there, at that village, but he had never meant for this. His mind raced back to that day, to the orders they had followed, to the atrocities he had witnessed but had not stopped. He had always told himself he was just following orders, that it was for the greater good, but now, facing this man’s wrath, those justifications felt hollow.
“Yes, I was there,” Stuart admitted, his voice trembling with the weight of his confession. “I was there, but I was following orders! It was Havers… Havers gave the orders. I saw… I saw what they did, but I didn’t… I couldn’t…”
Before Stuart could finish, Azam drove the knife deep into Stuart’s leg, twisting it as Stuart screamed in pain. The sound was raw, primal, filled with the agony of a man who knew he was nearing the end.
Azam leaned in close, his face inches from Stuart’s. “Orders?” he spat; his voice filled with venom. “You watched as they butchered my family, as they violated my sister, and you think ‘orders’ justifies it? You think that makes it okay?”
Stuart gasped for air, his vision swimming with pain. He knew this was it, that this man was going to kill him, but he couldn’t die with a lie on his lips. “I didn’t pull the trigger,” he managed to choke out. “But I was there. I… I should have done something, but I didn’t. And for that, I’m sorry. But it wasn’t me. It was Havers. He’s the one who ordered it all.”
Azam stared into Stuart’s eyes, searching for any hint of deception. But what he saw there was not the face of a man lying to save his life-it was the face of a man crushed by the weight of his own guilt. Azam could see the truth in Stuart’s eyes, the truth that he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge: Stuart had been complicit, yes, but he hadn’t been the mastermind. He had been a cog in the machine, just like so many others.
But that didn’t erase his guilt. Stuart had been there. He had stood by and done nothing while Azam’s world was destroyed. And for that, he deserved to suffer.
“Where is Havers?” Azam demanded, his voice a low growl.
Stuart hesitated, then finally, in a broken voice, he gave up the information. He told Azam everything-where Havers was, where he might be hiding, everything he knew. He had nothing left to lose, and in some twisted way, he hoped that by giving Azam what he wanted, he might find some measure of redemption.
Azam listened carefully, absorbing every word. When Stuart finished, Azam stood up, his face cold and unreadable. Without a word, he delivered a brutal blow to Stuart’s head, knocking him unconscious. Stuart’s body went limp, his breathing ragged but still alive.
Azam stared down at the man who had once been his target. The rage that had driven him for so long was still there, but now it was focused, directed. Stuart was not the end-he was merely a means to the end.
Azam pulled Stuart’s phone from his pocket, dialling emergency services. He spoke calmly, giving them the location of the warehouse, telling them that a man was injured and needed help. When the dispatcher asked for his name, he simply hung up, dropping the phone beside Stuart’s unconscious body.
He had no regrets. Stuart had deserved every moment of pain he had endured. But now, Azam’s focus shifted. Stuart was not the true monster. The man who had orchestrated the horrors, who had given the orders that led to the death of his family, was still out there.
As Azam walked out of the warehouse, leaving Stuart behind, his mind was clear. The manhunt was far from over.
“Havers,” Azam whispered to himself, the name like a curse on his lips. “I’m coming for you.”
And this time, there would be no hesitation, no mercy.
Chapter 20
Havers stood at the edge of the cabin’s small, secluded porch, his eyes scanning the darkened tree line. The cabin, nestled deep in the woods on the outskirts of town, was his sanctuary, a place where he could retreat from the world and plan his moves in peace. Tonight, however, it was supposed to be a trap—a carefully orchestrated ambush to capture the man hunting Stuart. But something was wrong. It had been over three hours since Stuart had left for the cabin, and he still hadn’t arrived.
Havers was a man accustomed to control, to precision. He didn’t like delays, and he certainly didn’t like uncertainty. He glanced back at the two men he had brought with him, both of them standing at attention just inside the cabin, their faces expressionless, their eyes cold. These were his best men, soldiers trained to be machines, devoid of the moral qualms that had plagued Stuart during the war. They followed orders without question, without hesitation. Unlike Stuart, they were reliable.
The fact that Stuart was late Irritated Havers more than itworried him. He had always considered Stuart a weak link, a soldier who had never fully embraced the harsh realities of war. It was Stuart’s hesitation, his reluctance to follow orders to the letter, that had created this situation in the first place. If Stuart had been more like these two men—machines made and paid for by the state—they wouldn’t be in this mess.
But as the minutes ticked by, irritation slowly gave way to a gnawing sense of unease. Something had happened. Havers pulled out his phone and dialled Stuart’s number, his impatience growing with each ring. But there was no answer. The call went to voicemail, and Havers hung up with a curse. He didn’t like the feeling creeping into his gut—the sense that the situation was slipping out of his control.
Another hour passed, and the unease began to turn into something darker. Havers’s phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through the silence of the night. He answered it immediately, expecting to hear from Stuart, or perhaps one of his men in the field. But the voice on the other end wasn’t one he recognised.
“Havers?” It was a woman’s voice, clipped and professional. “This is HQ. We’ve just received some critical information.”
Havers’s irritation flared. “What the hell do you want? I’m in the middle of an important assignment.”
The woman’s tone didn’t waver. “Sir, you need to know this. It’s about Stuart Locke. He’s been found.”
Havers’s blood ran cold for the first time in years. “What do you mean, ‘found’? Where is he?”
“He was discovered critically injured on a side road, not far from the river. He’s in an ambulance now, being transported to the nearest hospital.”
Havers felt a chill spread through his body, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in a long time. This wasn’t part of the plan. Stuart had been compromised, and worse—he was still alive. The implications hit Havers like a physical blow. If Stuart had been found, it meant that the man hunting him had learned who Havers was. The killer had left Stuart alive, likely after extracting information from him.
For a moment, Havers was silent, his mind racing through the possibilities. The cold, calculated part of his brain told him that this was a significant breach, one that needed to be contained immediately. But the other part, the part that had kept him alive through countless missions, was already plotting his next move. Stuart was a liability now, but Havers had his experience, his training, and his men. This killer might have found Stuart, but he would be no match for Havers and his operatives.
A slow smirk spread across Havers’s face as he considered the situation. “Understood,” he said into the phone, his voice calm and measured. “Send me the location of the hospital. I’ll take care of this.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman replied before disconnecting the call.
Havers put his phone away, the smirk still on his face as he turned to his men. “Stuart’s been compromised,” he informed them, his tone almost casual. “He’s in critical condition, en route to a hospital. The man hunting him left him alive—probably after getting what he wanted. We’re going to finish this.”
The two men nodded: their faces devoid of emotion. They were ready to move, ready to follow Havers’s orders without question.
“Prepare to leave,” Havers ordered, grabbing his gear and slipping it over his shoulder. “We’re going to the hospital. If Stuart talks, we make sure he doesn’t say anything that can’t be taken back. But the priority is the man who did this. He’s made a mistake by letting Stuart live. He’ll think he has the upper hand now, that he’s in control. But we’ll show him how wrong he is.”
As the three of them moved out of the cabin, Havers felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that came with the hunt. He knew how to deal with threats—swiftly, efficiently, and without mercy. This killer might have outmanoeuvred Stuart, but Havers was a different kind of opponent. He had survived too much, done too many things in the shadows, to be taken down by someone with a vendetta.
As they drove toward the hospital, Havers’s smirk faded into a cold, determined expression. This wasn’t just about cleaning up a mess. It was about reasserting control, about reminding everyone—his men, his enemies, and the ghosts of his past—that Havers was not a man to be trifled with. They would soon learn the cost of crossing Martin Havers.
Chapter 21
The road to the hospital twisted and turned through dense forest, the rain hammering down in relentless sheets. The windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the deluge, and the howling wind made the trees sway dangerously close to the narrow road. Havers sat in the backseat; his jaw clenched in irritation. The weather was yet another obstacle in his path, another delay when he needed to act quickly.
The driver, a seasoned Special Corps operative, kept his focus on the road ahead, expertly navigating the treacherous conditions. But as they rounded a particularly sharp bend, a deafening crack echoed through the air. A large tree, weakened by the storm, suddenly toppled over, crashing down onto the road directly in front of the vehicle. The driver reacted instantly, slamming on the brakes and bringing the car to a skidding halt just inches from the massive trunk.
“Sir, we have to move the tree,” the driver said, his voice steady despite the situation.
Havers gritted his teeth, his annoyance flaring. Another thing in his path, another delay. “Get it done quickly,” he ordered, his voice cold.
The two soldiers, who were as much machines as they were men, didn’t hesitate. They stepped out of the car, their movements precise, efficient. These were men who didn’t question orders, who didn’t hesitate in the face of danger. They were the kind of soldiers Havers valued—unlike Stuart, who had always been too hesitant, too questioning.
Just as the soldiers approached the fallen tree, the silence of the night was shattered by two quick, muffled pops. Havers barely had time to react before he saw his men drop to the ground, lifeless, like puppets whose strings had been cut. His heart pounded as he gripped his gun, his eyes scanning the darkness outside the car. The rain was falling even harder now, making it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him.
Havers fired blindly into the night, his nerves on edge, his instincts honed from years of combat screaming that he was under attack. The sound of gunfire echoed through the trees, but nothing moved in the darkness. He paused, reloading his weapon with swift, practiced motions.
Then, through the sheet of rain, he saw it—a figure, gliding toward him with a speed and grace that seemed almost inhuman. The figure moved with purpose, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed. Havers raised his gun, aiming directly at the approaching threat. His finger tightened on the trigger, and he fired again, this time hitting his mark.
The figure staggered, the momentum carrying It forward a few more steps before it slumped to the ground, motionless. Havers didn’t waste a second. He jumped out of the car; gun still raised and ran over to where the body lay in the mud.
He kicked the body over, revealing the face of the man who had haunted him for days. Even now, with blood soaking through his clothes and pain etched on his face, the man—Azam—smiled up at him, a twisted, eerie smile devoid of anything human.
Havers’s victory was short-lived. Before he could even register the sound, a deafening explosion tore through the night, the force of it lifting Havers off his feet and throwing him back against the car. The last thing he saw was the triumphant, empty smile on Azam’s face as the blast consumed them both.
The explosion rocked the forest, sending debris and flames into the air. The car, the fallen tree, and the bodies were engulfed in fire, leaving nothing but charred remains in the aftermath.
Chapter 22
The news broke the next morning. A terrorist attack had claimed the lives of three soldiers, with one more critically injured. The reports were vague, the details scarce, but the narrative was clear—a group of brave soldiers had confronted a dangerous terrorist, and in the line of duty, they had made the ultimate sacrifice.
Stuart woke in a hospital bed, his body aching, his mind clouded with painkillers and confusion. The room was sterile, the beeping of machines the only sound. He turned his head slowly, his vision blurry, to see a man sitting beside him. It took him a moment to recognise the face, but when he did, his heart sank.
It was General Kingsley, a man who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. The general leaned forward; his expression unreadable.
“What happened, son?” Kingsley asked, his voice calm, but with an undercurrent that suggested he already knew the answer.
Stuart swallowed; his throat dry. The memories of what had happened came flooding back—Azam, the attack, the truth he had confessed in those final moments. He explained everything to the general, his voice faltering as he recounted the horror.
Kingsley listened without interrupting; his face impassive. When Stuart finished, the general took a deep breath and then spoke in a measured tone.
“We can’t let this news get out, Stuart,” Kingsley said, his eyes boring into Stuart’s. “The public can’t know what really happened out there. Havers was a decorated soldier, a hero. If word got out that he was responsible for atrocities in the war, it would destroy everything. We’ll stick with the story that he was a terrorist and that they were killed in action fighting him. Havers will be remembered as a hero, posthumously awarded a medal. And you, Stuart, you’ll get a medal too—in recognition of your bravery.”
Stuart stared at the general, his mind reeling. The weight of what the general was asking him to do was crushing. He had to lie, to bury the truth, to take this secret to his grave. It was a betrayal of everything he had once believed in, but what choice did he have? He knew the consequences of refusing, knew what the military was capable of when it came to protecting its own.
“You understand?” Kingsley asked, his voice firm.
Stuart nodded slowly; his body numb. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Good,” the general said, standing up and adjusting his uniform. “We’ll take care of everything. You just focus on recovering.”
Just then, the door to the hospital room burst open, and Stuart’s family rushed in. Evelyn, Jake, and Lily surrounded his bed, their faces filled with relief and love. They didn’t know the truth, and Stuart knew they never would. To them, it was all over. The nightmare had ended, and they could go back to their lives, their happy family intact.
But as Stuart looked into their faces, his mind drifted back to Azam. He thought about the man who had lost everything, who had faced death because, in the end, he had found his own form of justice.
Stuart knew he had to live with the lies, with the guilt, but at least he could take some solace in the fact that Azam had found his peace, that the man who had destroyed his family had met his end in the flames of his own making.
As his family held him close, Stuart closed his eyes, knowing that the darkness would never fully leave him. But for now, he would play the part they needed him to play, the hero in a story that was anything but.
The Narratives - Mohamed Miah 
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