{A Hobbs&Shaw Fiction}
When Hattie Shaw is framed for killing her team, Isabella Ford is thrown into the firing line. Growing up with the Shaw family was the best thing that could have happened to Isabella, yet along the good came the bad, and lots...
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It took Isabella little more than a minute to hack into the measly system that was supposed to protect the Shaw hideout. Theoretically, it was owned by Deckard, but all four of the clan deemed it theirs to use at their will, often without him knowing.
She couldn't help but feel ashamed that the entry was so easy because as Isabella wandered through the vast space whilst gliding her hand across the spotless cars, she realised how quickly they could be stolen. The whole collection was Deckard's pride and joy, not to mention they were most likely worth millions if their values were combined.
Nonetheless, Isabella decided not to dwell on the cars and instead began her search for some sort of first aid kit. It used to be kept behind the miniature bar that they had set up years ago, but since people were injured regularly, the chances of it still being in its rightful place were very slim.
As her bruised fingers brushed across the gleaming bar, Isabella grabbed the glass of whiskey, taking a large gulp as she slumped back onto the black leather sofa that she couldn't have been more grateful for at that moment. The golden liquid burned her tender throat slightly, but as it settled in her stomach, an overwhelming feeling of warmth swamped her sore body.
Leaning her head back against the wall was surprisingly soothing; the coolness of the brick softened the pounding headache that echoed around her mind.
They were often the after-effects of using grenades, especially at such short range. It was extremely dangerous to set one off in her enclosed kitchen, but it was a life-or-death situation and couldn't have been avoided.
After hearing a few soft clicking sounds from down the length of the corridor, Isabella sat up anxiously. She hoped it would be Owen who opened the door, but one could never be too careful.
Clutching the gun that had saved her life less than an hour before, the injured woman placed herself behind one of the thick columns, out of view from the entrance. It wasn't much of a hiding spot, but it was the best she could do.
Gradually, the door creaked open, revealing a tall man dressed head to toe in black; that was Owen for sure. "Forty-three seconds," He announced, checking his expensive watch that sat comfortably on his tanned arm. "New record," Owen smirked to himself, looking up curiously when he heard a soft tapping of feet against the floor.
"That's because I disabled the other seven defences already." Isabella smiled as she strolled out from behind the post. His brown eyes filled with concern as he took in the state of the woman, "I just left you one for fun." She teased, wincing slightly as her arm rubbed against the bar.
"Who do I need to kill?" Owen asked, dropping his thick, black duffle bag onto the floor and making his way over to Isabella, who rolled her eyes at his dramatics, "Already taken care of." She reassured, patting his arm before attempting to return to the sofa.
