Broken Hands

128. Old Forsaken Home

"Sir, this is the last footage we got," Greg said as he pulled up the video on the large screen.

Damien stood stiff, arms crossed, his jaw set like a rock as the footage played. The flickering grainy images captured flashes of gunfire tearing through the night. He watched the chaos unfold—the screech of tires, the violent exchange of bullets. And then he saw it.

Russell.

The moment the car hit him. The way his body jerked, rolling over before hitting the ground. The way Grayson's scream barely registered over the noise.

Damien's nails dug into his palms. He forced himself to keep watching, to track every second of the footage. He saw the car doors slam shut, saw them drag Grayson inside, speeding off into the night.

Then—blackness.

Greg clicked to the next clip.

The vehicle had been found hours later, abandoned. The bodies of four men lay scattered around it, riddled with bullets. Blood soaked the pavement. Whoever had taken Grayson didn't get far before someone intercepted them.

But that was the problem.

It wasn't just one group after Grayson.

Rex had warned them. There were others.

Damien exhaled sharply, his mind racing. The second attack hadn't been fully captured—whoever took out that group had moved with surgical precision, avoiding cameras, leaving only bodies behind.

Something was off.

Very off.

Greg hesitated before speaking again. "Sir, we've thrown some of them into holding. Eddie, Arnold, Rick. But—" He hesitated, shifting uneasily. "Time's running out."

Damien already knew that.

But he also knew something else.

Grayson could handle himself to some extent.

The kid wasn't trained—at least not properly. But he wasn't a worm. He had instincts, and he knew how to survive.

That didn't mean Damien was about to sit back and watch.

He turned to his team, voice steady, sharp. "Shift your focus to the Bahamas."

Greg's eyes widened slightly, but he nodded.

"Get the team ready," Damien ordered.

The last thing Rick had mentioned was the Bahamas.

If Grayson wasn't already there—he was on his way.

*******

The night was alive, buzzing with voices and laughter, with the hum of engines and the scent of sizzling food curling through the air. Warm lights bled onto the streets, casting long shadows against the pavement. Restaurants glowed, inviting and golden, their windows fogged with heat and comfort. People bustled past, wrapped in thick coats, hands tucked into their pockets, oblivious to the nightmare Grayson was leaving.

But none of it mattered.

His ribs ached with every step, and his limbs screamed for rest, but he forced himself forward, weaving through the crowd like a ghost. Perez—Charlie—Hera, the code, the bracelet. It was all too much, too fast, but Grayson couldn't afford to fall apart. He had to move, had to get to the postal office before it was too late. He had to make sure the bracelet got to Raymond's house.

If he lost it, there was no second chance.

Only Julian knew the code other than him, and no one else. That knowledge would die with them if necessary.