"Don't scream," the man snapped as the cloth touched Clementine's lips.
"Please—" Clementine tried to push him away. Her hand slid on the hood of the parked car. Her keys skittered across the pavement.
"Quiet," the second thug said. "Move."
"You'll ruin it for yourself," the first added. He kept the cloth over her mouth and pushed her toward the van.
"Who sent you?" Clementine spit the question through the damp. Her eyes burned.
"Shut up," one man hissed. "You will be quiet, or worse will come for your family."
Clementine twisted, found the car door handle, slammed her hip against the frame. The cloth muffled her plea to any passerby.
"That's enough," a voice said from the shadows.
Clementine glanced up. Calder stood behind a lamppost, hoodie up, hands stuffed into pockets. He didn't step forward. He shouldn't have been there. He shouldn't even have seen this.
"Move!" the thug shoved Clementine hard. She staggered.
Calder's fingers twitched. He took one step, then stopped like someone who'd been ordered to pause.
"Drop it," the leader warned Calder without turning. "You walk away now and no one gets hurt."
Calder swallowed. He had options. He also had a son to protect. He'd learned when to make a scene and when to be silent. He raised his hands slowly, then turned, walking away with a pace that promised to be seen but not suspicious.
"Wait," Clementine called as they forced her
