Chapter 6 "The Chase Through Chaos"

Ayla

was quiet for a long time, her mind racing, trying to connect the dots. She

wasn't just afraid. She was understanding more than she wanted to. And that

made her dangerous.

The

weight of her realization hung in the air, thick and unspoken. Silas could see

it in the way her fingers curled slightly against her lap, the tension in her

jaw as if she were holding back words that could change everything.

But

now wasn't the time for questions.

The

low, guttural growl of an engine reached his ears—a sound he knew too well. Not

one. Two.

His

eyes flicked to the side mirror.

Two

motorcycles. Black helmets. Tinted visors.

"Damn

it," Silas muttered.

Ayla

snapped out of her thoughts. "What?"

"Friends

of Wellington." His grip tightened on the wheel. "And they don't look like they

just want to talk."

She

turned in her seat, her chest tightening as the two motorcycles weaved

effortlessly through traffic, gaining on them fast. The way they

moved—calculated, precise—it was clear. These weren't amateurs.

"Still

think this is just a coincidence?" Silas shot her a look.

Ayla

didn't answer. She was too focused on the threat closing in.

One

of the riders reached into his jacket.

Silas

yanked the wheel hard, just as the sharp crack of a gunshot rang out. A bullet

shattered the side mirror, sending shards of glass flying.

"Are

you insane?!" Ayla shouted, gripping the dashboard as Silas swerved between

cars.

Silas

clenched his jaw. "They're not giving us options."

The

road ahead narrowed—signs of an approaching night market. Bright lights.

Crowds. Stalls packed shoulder to shoulder.

Ayla's

breath caught. "You're not seriously—"

Silas

floored the accelerator.

The

car shot forward, blasting through the entrance of the crowded market. Vendors

screamed. People jumped out of the way as stalls were sent flying. A fruit cart

exploded into a mess of oranges and wooden splinters.

The

motorcycles tried to follow, weaving between gaps, but the narrow spaces slowed

them down.

Then

one of them did something unexpected.

He

ditched the bike entirely, jumping off and sprinting after them.

Ayla

saw it first. "He's on foot!"

Silas

slammed the brakes. "We're ditching the car."

Ayla

unbuckled before he could say anything else. "Now!"

They

threw open the doors and leapt out just as another gunshot shattered the back

windshield.

The

market erupted into chaos. People screamed, ducking for cover. Vendors shouted

in panic.

Silas

grabbed Ayla's wrist. "Move!"

They

ran.

Weaving

between stalls, pushing past panicked crowds. The smell of grilled meat and

spices mixed with the adrenaline burning through Ayla's veins.

But

then—a hand grabbed her.

Ayla

gasped, yanked backward. A tall, masked man had caught her by the arm, grip

like steel.

Silas

turned instantly.

One

punch—fast, brutal, direct to the throat.

The

attacker choked, stumbling, but he didn't go down.

He

was trained.

The

man retaliated with a knife swipe. Silas dodged just in time, the blade slicing

through air.

Ayla's

mind raced. Do something.

Her

eyes darted around. A glass bottle sat on a nearby stall. Without thinking, she

grabbed it—and smashed it over the attacker's head.

He

staggered.

Silas

didn't hesitate. One final strike—elbow to the jaw. The man collapsed.

Ayla's

breathing was ragged, her pulse thundering in her ears.

Silas

glanced at her, eyes sharp. "Not bad."

She

tossed the broken bottle aside, exhaling. "Told you I could handle myself."

But

they weren't safe yet. The second rider could still be out there. More of

Wellington's men could be closing in.

Silas

grabbed her hand. "Come on. We need to disappear."

They

vanished into the shadows of the market.