Chapter 131
Chapter 131
Jace had been staring at the man for what felt like hours before the officers had forced him into the back of the van, yelling, panicking, insisting that he was not Aiden Hale. The officers had remained unmoved, professional, relentless, and in the end, it hadn’t mattered. They pulled out the identification card.
Jace remembered the officer holding it up, the way Ben had squinted at it, voice shaking. “That is not me! I am Ben not Aiden!”
The officer’s gaze was steady. “You already confirmed that that was your picture.”
Victor’s eyes had widened in disbelief as he stared at the photo. Then, reluctantly, he had whispered, “Yes… that is me but that is not my name.”
The handcuffs had clicked around Ben's wrists, cold steel biting into his skin, and the officers had forced him into the van. The engine roared to life, tires crunching against the gravel driveway as the van pulled away, carrying away the source of so much suffering.
Jace walked back into his house and leaned against the wall of the sitting room, closed his eyes for a moment, and let the silence fill the space. It was different now, the tension that had been lodged in every corner of the house had lifted, even if only slightly.
Morgan, who had been handcuffed only moments before, was finally released. His hands rubbed the red marks where the cuffs had dug in, and he flexed his fingers slowly, as if testing that they were truly free. Jace opened his mouth to speak, to apologise, to explain, to offer some words that might make up for the chaos that had unfolded under his roof, but Morgan held up a hand before he could.
“I need a little time to breathe,” Morgan said quietly, almost softer than Jace expected. His tone carried no accusation, no anger, just a need for space. Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward the front door. Jace’s throat tightened, wanting to call after him, wanting to explain, wanting to make him understand but Morgan did not wait.
Jace closed his eyes again and let his shoulders sag. The house was quiet once more, though in a different way now. The storm of tension had passed, leaving a stillness that was almost unnerving. For the first time in weeks, he could breathe without the shadow of fear pressing down on his chest.
Mo appeared in the kitchen moments later, moving with her usual calm efficiency. She carried three glasses— two filled with water, one with freshly squeezed juice. She placed them carefully on the table, the sound of the glasses clinking gently against the surface filling the space in a soothing, domestic rhythm.
Noah, who had been standing behind Jace, reaching a hand toward the table, quickly grabbed his glass of water. Mila, bright-eyed and a little flushed from the tension, reached for the juice, her small hands wrapping around it tightly as though holding onto a piece of stability in a world that had been anything but stable lately.
Jace hesitated. His throat felt dry. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the water, but he stopped. He needed to speak first.
“Mo…” he began, his voice rough, almost breaking. He paused, trying to gather the right words. “I… I am so sorry. For everything....For what happened.... For all of this.”
Mo looked at him calmly, her expression soft and gentle, but not without the weight of someone who had seen far too much. “Jace,” she said, her voice steady, “I understand. If it had been my own child in danger, I would have done far more than you did. You were protecting Mila. You did what you had to do. That’s enough.”
Her words landed softly against him, easing some of the weight he had been carrying. The guilt, the tension, the fear...they did not vanish entirely, but they receded enough for him to feel a flicker of relief.
Mo glanced briefly at the empty doorway where Morgan had left. “And don’t bother worrying about Morgan. He will come around eventually. He is just… a little hurt. That is all.”
Jace nodded, letting the words sink in. He picked up the glass of water, finally allowing himself to take a sip. The cool liquid slid down his throat, soothing the dryness, calming the trembling in his hands. He felt more relaxed than he had in days, more relaxed than he had allowed himself to feel in months.
For the first time in a long time, the house felt safe.
Mo’s presence beside him grounded him further. She had been unwavering, a pillar in the storm, and he realised how much he valued her, how much her calm understanding had helped him navigate the turbulence.
“Thank you, Mo,” he said quietly, his voice carrying genuine gratitude. “For everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
Mo smiled softly. “You did what you had to do. That is all anyone can ask. Now, drink your water, relax, and let yourself feel that it’s finally over at least for now.”
Jace nodded again and took another sip, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease further. He leaned back in the chair, letting the cool water soothe his dry throat, his mind finally able to settle, even if just a little.
\~~~
Victor Crane gripped the metal handle of the van’s sliding door with a force that made his knuckles white. The hum of the engine vibrated through his body, mingling with the fear that had been building ever since the police had taken him from the Crane estate. The van’s interior was cramped and sterile, the smell of plastic and cold metal hanging heavy in the air. Two uniformed officers sat across from him, eyes sharp and unyielding, their hands resting on their weapons, ready for any unexpected movement.
Victor’s mind raced. He had been caught. He had been humiliated. Arrested as Aiden Hale.
“I am not Aiden,” he said, his voice rising slightly, trying to keep it controlled. “You have made a mistake. The real Aiden is still in the house. Morgan...he is still there. You are arresting the wrong man!”
One of the officers turned toward him, eyes cold and sharp. “Shut up and save your excuses.”
Victor swallowed hard, anger and frustration twisting in his chest. He had spent decades building power, influence, wealth, control and now he was being treated like a petty criminal, handcuffed and transported like a common offender again. Every fiber of his being recoiled against the humiliation.
“I am telling you the truth!” Victor insisted, his voice cracking just enough to betray his desperation. “I am Ben. I am not Aiden Hale. Look at my—”
But before he could finish, the van jolted violently. The tires screeched against the asphalt as something slammed into the side of the police van. Victor lurched forward, pressed against the metal wall, the officers on either side thrown off balance.
“What the—?” one of the officers shouted, reaching for his radio.
Before any of them could react further, a black van skidded to a stop alongside them. The sliding doors burst open, and armed, masked men leapt out. The world narrowed to a blur of dark shapes, glinting weapons, and sudden violence.
Victor’s eyes widened, terror washing over him in a cold wave. The officers shouted, trying to draw their guns, but the masked men moved faster, coordinated and ruthless. Gunfire erupted inside the van. Sparks of muzzle flash illuminated Victor’s face as bullets tore through metal and flesh. Screams filled the enclosed space.
Victor pressed himself to the floor, covering his head, heart hammering in his chest. Every instinct screamed to run, to fight, to survive, but the odds were impossibly stacked against him. He could hear the shots, they were too many and too close, the sound of life ending in metallic echoes. The officers’ shouts turned into gurgled cries, then silence.
Victor’s breath came in ragged gasps. The gunfire ceased. His head was pounding, his ears ringing. He dared a glance up. The van was still, ominously quiet except for the mechanical hum of the engine. The masked men had not moved from their positions.
One of them approached him slowly, a deliberate and terrifying calm in his movement. The man held a phone in one hand, pressing it to his ear, whispering softly.
“Yes, boss. He is here,” the man said, voice low and controlled.
Victor froze. “Boss?” he croaked, voice hoarse. His heart raced uncontrollably. Who was this? Who was orchestrating this?
The man removed the phone from his ear and placed it on speaker so that both he and Victor could hear the voice on the other end.
“He can hear you now, boss,” the man said.
Then Justin’s voice came through the phone, cold, controlled, and terrifyingly amused. Victor’s stomach turned.
“Victor,” Justin began, his tone dripping with satisfaction, “I know exactly what you have been doing. I know you tried to rat out Aiden. You thought you could manipulate the situation, control everything, and hide in the shadows. But you were wrong. This…” Justin’s voice hardened, sharp as a blade, “…this is to tighten loose ends. Just like the last time you tried to kill me, Victor. You understand what that means, don’t you?”
Victor’s pulse thundered in his ears. His mind raced, attempting calculations, escape routes, reasoning, anything that might save him but the reality was immediate and inescapable. He had underestimated Justin’s reach, his ruthlessness.
Justin’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts like a scalpel. “Make sure he’s dead. This one has a history of coming back from the dead.”
The masked man holding the gun shifted slightly, raising the weapon with a precision that sent Victor’s stomach into his throat. “Yes, boss,” he said quietly, almost mechanically.
Victor’s eyes widened, disbelief and terror warping his features. “No… this can’t—”
The first bullet tore through his shoulder, and fire exploded along his nerve endings. He screamed, the sound raw and involuntary, a mixture of agony and panic. Pain flared across his body, each shot tearing through muscle and bone. Another hit to his side, then his leg. He collapsed to the floor of the van, the metallic clang of his body hitting the cold metal surface echoing ominously.
“Stop! Please!” he begged, desperation sharpening his voice, his mind unable to comprehend the sudden, overwhelming reality. “I… I can explain! I can—”
Another bullet tore through his torso, and Victor’s vision blurred. The world tilted violently, the black interior of the van spinning around him. He felt the warmth of blood spreading beneath him, felt his strength draining with each passing second.
Justin’s laughter echoed again through the phone, unrelenting.
Victor’s chest heaved as he tried to breathe, but each inhale brought agony that stole his words, his thought, his very will. He tried to lift his head, to plead, to bargain but the masked man advanced steadily. Each step was deliberate, precise, inevitable.
The remaining bullets tore through his limbs, his abdomen, his back. Every shot felt like a hammer smashing into his body, breaking him into pieces. Then Victor blacked out. He was dead.