Moments later, Dominic slid into Luke's car, the door slamming shut behind him.
Inside, silence. The weight of betrayal hung heavy.
Dominic spoke first, his voice low. "Thanks, Luke."
When he received the stolen chip components from the Southern European military base, he finally understood why Cole Shaw had wanted him to pass that information to Luke. It was a setup—a distraction to pull them away from the real objective.
Luke grinned, though there was no humour in it. "I came here to find you, and it got a few of your friends killed. Can't blame you for what went down, Dom. I can only say Owen Shaw's too damn smart for his own good."
He shook his head. "He knew we'd chase the trail to that modification shop. He played us from the start."
Luke had never blamed Dominic—not once. He just knew the man cared too much about Letty. And that weakness had been exactly what Owen and Cole needed. And those MI6 idiots? They'd underestimated both Shaw brothers from day one.
Brian exhaled sharply from the passenger seat. "So what now? Clues are gone, right?"
"I know where their base is," Dominic said suddenly.
Luke's brow furrowed. "You know?"
"When I was video-chatting with Cole, I studied everything behind him—the walls, the framing, the light." Dominic's eyes narrowed. "I pieced it together. But back then, I couldn't move on it. If I'd gone, Letty would've died."
Now, though, with the second chip component in Shaw hands, they'd need the third within forty-eight hours. Which meant the base should be clear.
"London doesn't have what they need," Dominic continued. "So they're gone."
"How'd you come to that?" Luke asked.
"When I was at the tuning factory," Dominic lied smoothly, "I found an address for a car park. Looked into it—turns out it's a condemned garage. Tell me, Luke, do tuning shops normally haul fresh builds to scrap yards?"
Luke frowned, understanding dawning.
"It's their home base," Dominic said flatly.
It was a clean lie, the kind that bought him time. He couldn't risk Luke seeing through it—not yet.
Luke slammed the car into gear. "Then let's move."
Minutes later, they arrived at the abandoned car park on the outskirts of London. Rusted gates. Oil stains. Silence.
They swept through fast—Dominic, Luke, and Brian—each armed, eyes sharp.
And there it was: an abandoned luxury car, same make and model as the vehicles used by Owen's team.
"Gotcha," Luke muttered.
They breached the underground level and discovered a small command nest—maps, gear crates, comms equipment.
They grabbed every drive, every scrap of intel that might tell them where the Shaws would hit next, and loaded it into Luke's SUV.
Time to move.
⸻⸻
The next day.
Bath, England.
A small manor surrounded by hedgerows and morning fog.
William Harcourt stepped out of the MI6 vehicle with ten armed agents.
"Sir," one of them said, checking the file. "This is the residence of Magdalene Shaw—mother of Owen and Cole."
Harcourt's jaw tightened. "Idiots. We catch the mother, we don't need to find the sons."
This was no friendly visit. Harcourt had combed MI6 archives all night. Only her residence remained traceable. The rest of the family? Ghosts. That was enough for him.
They moved up the path. The gardener looked up from trimming the rose bushes, gave a polite nod, and let them pass without a word.
Inside, the servants were calm—too calm.
Harcourt's boots echoed on the marble as they entered the living room. There, arranging a vase of fresh lilies, sat Magdalene Shaw—elegant, composed, unbothered.
"Magdalene Shaw," Harcourt said, hands on his hips. "MI6. I'm William Harcourt. You're coming with us to assist in a robbery investigation."
Magdalene lifted her eyes slowly, a faint smile touching her lips. "MI6," she repeated softly. "Haven't heard that name in quite some time."
She turned back to her flowers. "You're here to use me as leverage against my sons, aren't you?"
Harcourt smirked. "So you do know what your boys are. Save us the speech and come quietly."
Magdalene shook her head gently. "As a mother, I won't walk into your little trap. No matter what my sons have done—they're still my blood. My family. And I'll never hand them to you."
Her tone sharpened just enough. "I'm afraid, Captain Harcourt, you'll have to leave."
Harcourt's face darkened. "That's not your call, Mrs. Shaw. Take her."
Two MI6 agents stepped forward—guns drawn.
In the next instant
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunfire erupted from the vase on the table—Magdalene had drawn a concealed micro-pistol from the flower arrangement. Three agents dropped before they could even raise their weapons.
"WHAT THE—" Harcourt dove for cover, but she was already reloading.
BANG! Another went down.
In seconds, the living room floor was painted with blood.
Only Harcourt remained standing, frozen between rage and disbelief. He reached for his gun—
CRACK!
A single round punched through the window, knocking the weapon from his hand.
He spun toward the source—the gardener. Calm, unhurried, still holding pruning shears in one hand and a suppressed sidearm in the other.
"Sorry, Captain," the gardener said evenly. "MI6 doesn't get to keep her. You must be new here."
Magdalene exhaled and set the pistol back on the table. "Consider yourself lucky, Captain Harcourt. I'm not in the mood to kill a child playing spy."
Her voice softened, almost kind. "Leave. While you can."
The servants entered quietly, efficient and cold. They dragged the corpses away, mopping the blood within minutes.
Harcourt stood motionless, the enormity of it sinking in.
Then he turned and walked out—slowly, without a word—before breaking into a desperate stride back to his car.
Magdalene returned to her chair, adjusting a white lily, the faint scent of gunpowder still in the air. Her eyes drifted toward the window—toward Barcelona.
She whispered under her breath, "The little one's grown up. Whether that's good or bad... we'll see."
⸻⸻
Barcelona, Spain.
A high vantage overlooking a military base.
Owen Shaw stood beside Cole, both watching through binoculars as the convoy below moved under floodlights.
Owen's phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen, saw the name, and tossed it to Cole.
"It's Deckard," he said.
Cole caught it, exhaled, then answered the call.
"Fuck you, Owen, you thick bastard!" Deckard's voice roared through the line. "I told you not to fuck with Cipher, but you wouldn't listen. Now MI6 is crawling around mum's bloody house!"
Both brothers froze.
Cole's tone changed instantly. "Deckard, they went after Mum? Is she all right?"
"She's fine," Deckard snapped back, his tone easing a little. "The rookie who led it didn't know what he was walking into. He wanted leverage, thought grabbing her would make you talk. Didn't end well for his team."
Cole's jaw clenched. "Good."
"She's still sharp as ever. But you two are pushing your luck." Deckard's tone hardened again. "Wrap your shit up before you drag the rest of the family into your little war."
Cole gave a faint smirk. "It's nearly done, Deck. Don't worry."
He ended the call, slid the phone away, and turned to Owen. "She's fine."
Owen exhaled, eyes still fixed on the base. "Don't worry. Mum's untouchable. You know what she used to be before all this?"
Cole frowned. "No idea. I just knew she'd done time in the service. She never talked about it."
Owen nodded slowly. "She kept it quiet for a reason. Mum wasn't just MI6—she was their top killer. Before she married Dad, her name was Victoria Winslow."
...