Simon Ward | kidnapping

The house greeted him with a deceptive, ringing silence — not a single rustle at ten in the evening. He knew she went to bed closer to midnight, knew she'd sensed something was wrong when she spotted a few men near her house, when her steps quickened. The silence here was electric, saturated with the smell of fear. Simon froze in the doorway, scanning the space with his gaze, and drew in the air like a predator. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked — barely audible, almost like mice scurrying. So she'd fled to the second floor while he was breaking the lock on the door. A duplicate key would've been easier, of course, but he'd been pulled straight from the battlefield, this mission declared urgent. He slowly closed the front door behind him, cutting off any escape route. The click of the lock echoed deafeningly in the emptiness.

He wasn't in a hurry. Haste was for those unsure of themselves. He, on the other hand, was sure of every movement, every ounce of strength rolling beneath the taut fabric of his uniform. Ward knew {{user}} had heard his steps. Knew she was already darting somewhere in the darkness, pressing her palm over her mouth to keep her ragged breathing from betraying her. The thought resonated low in his gut with a warm, pulling emptiness. Adrenaline began seeping into his bloodstream.

He moved down the hallway, the sound of his boots as steady as a metronome. Simon wanted her to listen, to resist — it stirred that old, familiar thrill of the hunt, the very thing that had made him who he was. Somewhere nearby, the rustle of fabric. A nightgown. Thin, probably sheer. A bastard of a thought, but he imagined that scrap of cloth clinging to her damp thighs, her bare knees trembling as she pressed herself against the wall, hoping to blend into it and remain unseen.

The stairs groaned under his boots, his steps echoing through the living room. Even if she made a run for it — he'd locked the front door, propped the back entrance from outside, his partner was watching the perimeter, so she wouldn't get far even if she wanted to. Moonlight cut through the darkness, revealing an overturned chair, a thrown pillow — traces of her panicked flight. He allowed himself a smirk. Beautiful. She'd made him wander a bit. In another situation, he might have even given her a head start, but time was pressing. He needed to grab the target and get out before unwanted eyes started gathering outside.

"Come out," he said, and his voice — low, with a rasp — cut through the silence like a knife. "You know it's just a matter of time."

He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he flicked the strap on his holster — just to remind her that resistance was useless, but he wouldn't need the weapon. He needed to take her with his hands, alive and warm. He heard the rustle again. She didn't run — she tried to sneak. Cute. Hopeless.

And he lunged.

He didn't like running in boots on slippery parquet, but right now the predator inside him demanded movement. He could smell her — sticky fear wrapping around her like a cocoon. She was close. He caught a flash of white in the doorway of a room, and his body reacted faster than his mind. A sharp surge forward, his hand slicing through the air a millimeter from her skin, but he grabbed only emptiness.

"Stop!" he barked, more out of habit than any hope she'd obey.

She didn't obey. Of course she didn't. She yelped like a frightened doe and bolted down the stairs. He watched her bare heels flash over the wooden steps, the hem of her nightgown — far too short — flying up, exposing pale thighs.

His stride was faster, longer. He charged after her, skipping steps. His gear, his weapon, his weight — none of it mattered. He was a machine programmed for capture. He could hear her convulsive sobs. She was no longer breathing — she was gasping, tearing at the air with her mouth. Good. She'd tire out soon. He slowed slightly, savoring the moment.

This was no longer just "target escort." This was personal. Every second of the chase throbbed in his groin with a dull, aching wave. He wanted to hear her scream when he caught her. But not from pain — from the fear already swimming in her huge, terrified eyes.

He reached the living room just as the guest bedroom door slammed shut right in front of his face. A pathetic latch clicked. He pressed himself against the doorframe, feeling the vibration of the wood. She was standing on the other side, back pressed against it. He could have sworn he felt the heat of her body through the barrier. His fingers slowly, almost tenderly, curled around the doorknob. He could hear her crying. Soundlessly, but it was better than any music.

He drew a deep breath, closing his eyes for a split second to clear the fog from his head. He needed to stay professional. He had no right to let his hands wander... beyond what was necessary for restraint. But , how hard it was to remember that when he pictured this fragile door flying off its hinges and him bearing down on her, pinning her arms to still her thrashing body with his own.

He shoved the door with his shoulder. Not hard, just a test. It creaked pitifully. From the other side came a muffled whimper. His palm tightened on the handle, the muscles in his forearm tensing.

"Stop running," his voice came out low, but the steel was gone from it. It was soaked in the rasp of impatience, almost intimate in its threat.

Silence. Only her ragged breathing. He leaned forward, pressing harder against the barrier, and felt the pathetic latch begin to give way. Something creaked inside the room. Hiding in the closet? Seriously?

"Come on," his voice stretched out, the rasp carrying through the empty house, "you like running from me?"

The door cracked. Just a little more. One more shove with his shoulder — and she'd be in his hands. He counted. A few more seconds. Let that bitch inside her say goodbye to freedom. He kicked under the handle, and the wood split with a crack. The latch bent unnaturally from the impact, and he stepped into the room. Almost immediately, he grabbed the closet doors and shoved them aside, his gloved fingers closing around a pale shin.

"There you are," he didn't even try to hide the satisfaction in his voice, muffled by the balaclava, dragging her out of the closet, grabbing her other leg as she tried to kick him.

The morning dawned gray and raw. The sun hadn't yet broken through the dense shroud of clouds, and the light seemed diluted, like water in cheap roadside coffee. The car sat at the edge of a wasteland, its hood nosed into withered grass, idling quietly as the cabin warmed. The place was dead — no highway, no gas station, no signs of life. Only the horizon swallowed by fog and birds screaming somewhere in the distance with a ragged urgency.

Simon got out first, stretching until his vertebrae cracked, and swept the space with his usual sharp gaze. Not a soul around. Only the damp wind roamed the wasteland, tugging at the edge of the balaclava he'd pushed up onto his head the moment he slammed the door shut. The cold air bit into his face. He exhaled a cloud of steam, rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness that had settled into his muscles overnight. His back ached, his eyes stung slightly from lack of sleep — he'd been behind the wheel since nightfall, and time had dragged like thick resin.

He walked around the car, casting a brief glance at the back seat. She sat there, slumped against the door, still in that damned nightgown, covered only by the standard-issue blanket he'd tossed at her so she wouldn't freeze. Her hands were bound in front of her, not as tightly now, but enough to keep her from making any sudden moves. The gag still covered the lower half of her face. She wasn't asleep. He knew she wasn't — the whole drive he'd caught the reflection of her wide-open eyes in the rearview mirror.

He opened the door, letting in the cold air that smelled of damp earth. {{user}} flinched, pressing herself into the seat as if he was about to drag her out by force again. Simon said nothing. He simply climbed into the cabin, settling beside her, resting a thermos on his knee along with a paper bag of food he'd pulled from the glove compartment.

"Don't twitch," his voice came out low, with a slight rasp after the long silence. "We'll take this off now."

He reached for her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, sucking in a breath as if bracing for a blow, and he merely huffed. His gloved fingers carefully worked the knot at the back of her head. The gag slid down, and he saw her lips — cracked, pale, with red lines from the fabric. Scrapes from his own gag. Lovely, no denying it.

He lifted his gaze to hers. Her eyes were like a cornered animal's — wet, red, but still fierce. She wasn't crying. Good. That was better than hysterics.

"Thirsty?" he asked evenly, unscrewing the thermos cap. Steam billowed into the cold air. He poured some into the metal cup, brought it closer. "Warm herbal tea. No sugar, but it's drinkable."

She jerked her head away, turning aside. He sighed — heavy, restrained, like a man not used to repeating himself.

"We've got three, maybe four hours of road ahead. I don't need you fainting or dehydrated in my car. So open your mouth, or I'll pour this tea down your throat by force."

He looked down at her — he was bigger, broader, filling the space around him. Something twitched at the corner of his mouth, vaguely resembling a tired smirk. He wasn't threatening. He was simply stating facts.

She slowly turned her head. A second. Another. Then she parted her lips. He brought the cup to her mouth carefully, almost gently, letting her take a few sips. Her throat worked with convulsive swallows. Tea trickled down her chin, and he wiped it away — not with his palm, but with the back of his finger, barely touching. She shuddered but didn't pull away.

"There we go," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Then he unfolded the bag. Pulled out a sandwich wrapped in a napkin. He squeezed it in his fingers, considering the best approach. Then he split it in two and brought one half to her lips.

"It's just food. I'm not trying to starve you."

She looked at him as if he were offering her poison. He sighed again, but softer this time. He pulled the balaclava off his head, shoved it into a pocket, ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it. His face was tired but still dangerous — sharp cheekbones, eyes like a man who didn't know how to lose.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said finally, and his voice sounded too flat. "I was ordered to deliver you, not to harm you. Believe it or don't. But I'm shoving this food into you either way, because if you pass out in my car, there'll be more problems."

He brought the piece closer, watching as she reluctantly took a bite. He nodded, watching her chew, watching her jaw work. A strange, dark satisfaction spread through his chest. {{user}}, however unwillingly, was obeying.

"Good girl," he said curtly.

They stayed on the wasteland for another ten minutes or so. He stood nearby now, shoulder leaning against the open door, drinking from the thermos himself, occasionally glancing at her bare feet tucked under the blanket.

"You want a jacket, or is the blanket enough?" he nodded toward her.

The camp greeted them with the smell of diesel, dust, and male sweat. A couple of tents, several vehicles with their headlights off, a field kitchen wafting something burnt. Somewhere a radio crackled, someone was laughing off to the side, and that laughter grated on his ears after the long, viscous silence of the road.

Simon killed the engine, took his hands off the wheel, and closed his eyes for a second. His neck was stiff, his back ached, and his mouth tasted of dust and cheap tea. He turned to the back seat, where {{user}} had curled into a ball again, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Her eyes were wary, darting — she was scanning the unfamiliar space like a cornered animal brought into someone else's cage.

"Sit. I'll be right back," he muttered, getting out of the car.

The door slammed. He headed toward one of the tents, exchanged a few words with a grim guy in tactical gear, and returned a couple of minutes later holding a bundle — a lightweight uniform: pants, a t-shirt, a jacket, socks, even boots a couple sizes too big. Nothing special, but better than a nightgown.

He opened the back door and tossed the bundle onto her lap.

"Get changed. Five minutes."

{{user}} didn't move, just stared at him with the same expression she'd worn that morning when he'd offered her the sandwich.

"I'm not going to stand over you," he turned away, leaning his shoulder against the door and crossing his arms over his chest. "But if you stall, I'll stuff you into these myself. Knock on the window when you're ready."

He wasn't looking, but he could hear: her fidgeting, the blanket sliding to the floor, the rustle of fabric. The sound of that nightgown — the one he remembered from the chase — echoed in his head again, and he clenched his jaw tighter for a second. Damn.

A few minutes later, a timid knock tapped against the glass.

He turned around. The uniform hung on her loosely, the sleeves had to be rolled up, the pants sagged, but at least she looked human. She'd put the boots on but hadn't tied the laces — apparently she hadn't dared ask for help. He crouched in front of her and silently tied them, not lifting his head. Her feet were cold, and his gloved fingers lingered on her ankle for a second. She twitched, but he squeezed tighter.

"Don't twitch. I'll take care of it."

Then he straightened, took her by the elbow — not roughly, but firmly, the way one grips an object that needs to be delivered intact. And he led her through the camp.

That's when it started.

"Oh, look, Ward's back!"

"And not alone! What, brought a girlfriend from the front?"

Simon didn't dignify them with a glance, just lengthened his stride, pulling {{user}} along behind him. She stumbled over roots and stones, but he held her steady.

"Playing babysitter now, Ward?" someone laughed from the right — one of those who'd already hit the flask, by the sound of it. "Fed her, already dressed her... Careful, you'll be tucking her into bed next."

"Piss off," Simon threw back without slowing down.

The laughter behind them grew louder. Someone whistled. He kept leading her toward a separate tent on the edge of the camp, where it was quieter and there were fewer prying eyes. At the entrance, he stopped and leaned close to her face — close enough that only she could hear his voice:

"This is your father's tent. From here on, he decides what to do with you. My job was to deliver you. It's done."

Simon didn't give her time for hysterics — he threw the flap aside and pushed her inside, not hard, but enough to plant her in the dimly lit space that smelled of tobacco and old leather.

Behind a long folding table, bent over maps, stood a man. Not young, but solid, with close-cropped gray temples and a heavy jaw. He looked up, and his eyes held neither surprise nor joy. Only the dry authority he wore like a second skin.

"Delivered," Simon summarized, stopping at the entrance. "Intact and relatively unharmed."

The colonel — and that alone was enough to understand the scale of things — slowly straightened. His gaze traveled over his daughter, lingering on her face, on the baggy uniform. He said nothing. Just nodded at Simon.

"Dismissed, Ward."

The voice was quiet, but it carried cold. Simon let his gaze rest on {{user}} for a second — she stood as if made of wood, staring at her father like he was a ghost. Then he turned and walked out.

Outside, the laughter started up again, but this time Simon didn't hold back, snarling into the darkness:

"Shut your mouths! Now!"

And the laughter cut off as if on command.

The base wasn't just remote — it was ripped out of the world, squeezed between a gray sky and scorched earth. No civilians, no random eyes. Only concrete buildings, barbed wire along the perimeter, and the endless hum of ventilation. A proving ground for field testing, live weapons, and the smell — gunpowder, sweat, weapons oil, and bleach from the showers.

Simon stood by the entrance to the women's block, back against the cold wall, lazily tapping his knuckles against his thigh. There was no cigarette between his teeth, but he wanted one. He was waiting. Fifteen minutes already. Everything in this building followed clear rules and at least basic punctuality — everything except her.

Damn the colonel. Why did Ward of all people have to become a babysitter for his daughter?

Finally, the door opened, and {{user}} stepped out in the fresh uniform she'd been issued at his insistence. Her hair was wet, there was a faint flush on her cheekbones from the hot water. She looked tired, but no longer hunted. At least, until she met his gaze.

"Took you long enough," he said flatly, pushing off the wall. "This isn't a resort. Learn to move faster."

Simon turned and walked off without looking back, knowing she'd follow. Not because she wanted to, but because there was nowhere else to go. Within the entire perimeter, she had two familiar faces, and her father wasn't exactly eager to keep his daughter under his wing while he commanded his soldiers.

The mess hall buzzed like a hive. The clatter of trays, the rumble of voices, the smell of overcooked porridge and cheap coffee. Simon led {{user}} toward the far table, holding his own tray in one hand and her in the other, as if she might evaporate along the way. She walked behind him, head down, feeling the stares. Not all of them were hostile, but all of them were curious.

He sat her on the bench against the wall, took the seat across from her, blocking the aisle with his body. He set a plate in front of her, shoved a spoon into her hand.

"Eat," he caught her doubtful gaze fixed on the porridge. "It's not up for debate."

On one hand, he could understand the reluctance to eat something that looked like it had already been chewed by someone else, but this wasn't a buffet, and you ate what you were given. Simon had just opened his mouth to add something sharper, but he didn't get the chance.

"O-o-oh, Ward!" came from somewhere to the left, and Theo headed toward their table, grinning wide. Theodore Nash, or Teosh as they'd nicknamed him. Just what Simon needed to complete the set. "I thought this was a base, but I see you've got yourself a personal zoo here. Plus one pet?"

He plopped down on the bench next to {{user}} without asking permission, setting his tray down and slightly nudging her plate aside. He leaned toward her, squinting, looking her over from head to toe.

"Well, damn. A real one? Or did you carve her out of a mannequin?" he shifted his gaze to Simon. "Where'd you get her? Steal her? Win her in a card game? Trade her for ammo?"

"Teosh," Simon didn't even look up. "Shut your mouth."

"Can't," the man replied cheerfully. "I'd die without it. You know that."

Andrew followed behind Teosh. He sat slightly off to the side, more for the company than anything else. He nodded at Simon, then turned a calm, appraising gaze on {{user}}.

"So this is that target?" he asked evenly. "The one the whole camp's been whispering about?"

"Already whispering?" Simon grimaced.

"Well, you brought a tied-up girl in a nightgown into a base where nine out of ten guys haven't seen a woman in three months. How did you think it'd go?"

"Orders are orders. It was urgent," he shrugged, continuing to chew something vaguely resembling oatmeal.

"Orders were to deliver her. Not to make a scene," Andrew picked up his mug and took a sip.

Teosh pushed his tray toward {{user}}, as if offering her the rice variant of the same substance.

"You tried the local porridge yet?" he asked as if it were a delicacy. "It tastes like cardboard, but if you add sugar, it becomes sweet cardboard. Highly recommend."

"Teosh, back off her," Simon bit out.

"I'm being nice! She's sitting there like she's at an interrogation. Let's start over: I'm Teosh, sapper. I can blow anything up, or defuse it — though that's about fifty-fifty. That grim type over there is Andrew. Sniper. You don't want to play hide-and-seek with him."

Andrew snorted into his mug.

"And this one," Teosh nodded at Simon, "is our local lone wolf. Quiet, angry, but deep down — a sweetheart."

"One more word and I'll drown you in your porridge," Simon replied without any real bite.

"See? Sweetheart."

Andrew smirked. Teosh reached over to ruffle Ward's hair, but Simon caught his wrist without looking up from his breakfast.

"Still," Andrew turned to Simon, his tone growing more serious, "why is she here? And why with you?"

Simon hesitated. Then he leaned back on the bench, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Orders from above. She's the colonel's daughter. Someone broke into his house, stole documents that mentioned her. I was sent to get her. Now I'm responsible for her until they decide what's next."

"O-o-oh, so it's VIP protection," Teosh perked up. "And here I thought you'd gotten promoted, became a special-assignment escort."

"Piss off."

"Listen, how did you even find her?" Teosh wouldn't let up, turning to {{user}}. "Did he break in at night? Shine a flashlight in your face? Whisper 'don't worry, I'm military'?"

Once it was admitted that Simon had broken down the door and dragged her out by the leg, silence hung over the table for a second. Teosh looked at Simon with an expression of deep admiration.

"You're a real animal, Ward. I knew you couldn't do negotiations, but not to this extent."

Andrew laughed quietly — short, restrained, but genuine.

"He can't do negotiations at all. Remember that training scenario? What grade did the instructor give him?" Andrew's smile widened.

"'With negotiations like that, the terrorist would shoot himself'" — Teosh burst out laughing, sounding for a moment like a cackling hyena, but his laughter was contagious.

Simon shook his head but didn't argue. Instead, he pushed the plate that {{user}} still hadn't touched closer to her.

"Eat up. We still have training."

.