Caught

The night sky over the cove was turning the deep grey of pre-dawn, , when the first helicopter thundered in low from the sea—spotlight blazing, downdraft whipping the waves into white froth. Two more followed seconds later, flanked by fast-response boats cutting black wakes toward the shore, strobes flashing red and blue.

Jackie and his remaining men froze halfway down the lighthouse steps, Jill’s **** body slung over one guard’s shoulder like a trophy. The air filled with amplified commands in English accents—Metropolitan Police, backed by armed coastal units.

“Armed police! Drop your weapons! Hands in the air! On the ground now!”

Jackie’s face twisted. He looked at the crushed tracker in his palm, then at the sky, calculating. Rifles clattered to the concrete as his men complied instantly—outgunned, outnumbered, cornered. Jackie raised his hands slowly, silver rings catching the spotlight, cursing under his breath.

Boots pounded up the metal stairs. Black-clad officers in ballistic vests swarmed the tower, weapons trained, voices sharp and professional. Within thirty seconds every surviving Crown Serpent was face-down, cuffed, and dragged clear.

A female officer with a medic patch knelt beside Jill, carefully rolling her onto a stretcher board. The torn tank top had slipped completely off one shoulder; the shorts were barely decent. The medic draped a thermal blanket over her without comment, checking pulse and pupils.

Jill stirred as the helicopter noise and voices pulled her back. Her jaw throbbed from Jackie’s perfect hook, head fuzzy, but consciousness returned fast. She blinked up at the ring of familiar Met insignia, the Union Jack flashes on shoulders.

One of the armed officers—a sergeant she vaguely recognised from a joint training course years ago—nodded down at her.

“Morning, Thompson. Nice holiday spot you picked.”

Jill swung her legs off the stretcher, blanket loose around her shoulders, and walked barefoot over the blood-smeared concrete until she towered above Jackie. He knelt there, zip-tied, face a pulp of blood and defeat, silver rings dull under the chopper’s spotlight.

She dropped into a crouch, eye-to-eye, blonde hair wild, lip bleeding, scratches striping her skin like medals. A slow, lethal smile.

“You had me naked, cuffed, boxed, knocked cold… and you still fucked it up.”

She tilted her head, voice velvet and venom.

“All that care to keep the goods pretty, and you missed the tracker on my tongue.”

A beat.

“So tell me, Jackie — does losing taste like blood… or just disappointment?”

Before he could spit a reply, Jill straightened and stomped down — bare heel crushing his already-broken nose with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed. Jackie screamed, head whipping back.

She turned on her heel, blanket slipping to flash scratched, defiant skin, and tossed over her shoulder to the sergeant:

“Book him for everything,” she said coolly. “And add **** on an officer… specifically, my foot on his face.”

The sergeant gave a short, approving nod. “Already noted, Thompson.”

As they guided her toward the waiting helicopter, rotors thumping like a heartbeat, Jill didn’t look back again. She climbed aboard, pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and finally let the adrenaline ebb—just enough to feel the dawn air on her skin and know, without a doubt, that she was going home.

The sergeant shook his head, fighting a smirk, and waved the medic over.

“Come on, hero. Let’s get you wrapped up and off this rock.”

As they guided her toward the waiting helicopter, rotors still thumping, Jill glanced back once at the lighthouse—Harlan’s body being respectfully covered, Jackie on his knees clutching his face—and allowed herself one deep, steady breath.

She was going home.