CHAPTER SEVENTEEN JAX #2
"I'll design it." The decision is already made. "Layered systems, no single points of failure, the kind of infrastructure that makes penetration impossible rather than just difficult."
"That's what we need." Brandon is already pulling up building schematics on his tablet.
"The safe house is secure for now—Andre is on-site, building security is solid, tenth floor means no fire escape access.
But we need permanent infrastructure that works even if someone watches patterns and finds vulnerabilities. "
"Give me full access to the location. I'll assess what's there, identify what needs to be added, design something Trask can't bypass even if he conducts weeks of surveillance.
" I'm already thinking through layers—motion sensors, cameras, access controls, multiple alert systems that don't depend on any single point of monitoring.
Brandon drives me to the safe house in his SUV, spending the trip providing additional details about Trask's operational methods. The break-in was clean, professional, timed perfectly to exploit a brief vulnerability. Someone trained him or he has background we haven't uncovered yet.
"He's better than we initially assessed," Brandon says as we pull up to a modern building in The Gateway that's significantly more secure than Lana's old apartment.
"The level of preparation, the patience to watch patterns for days, the skill to pick locks and time an entry that precisely—this isn't standard private investigator work. "
"No, it's intelligence contractor level training." I'm already scanning the building exterior, noting the controlled access entrance, the security cameras, the concierge desk visible through the lobby windows. "Which means whoever hired him has resources beyond standard legal intimidation."
"That's what concerns us." Brandon leads me into the building, shows credentials to the concierge, and takes me to the elevator. "We're operating on the assumption that Trask has backing and skills that make this a serious threat rather than just harassment."
The elevator rises to the tenth floor. A Blackwood agent is positioned outside one of the doors and nods to Brandon as we approach.
"Marcus," Brandon says by way of introduction. "This is Jax Hills, the security consultant Mr. Voss arranged. Jax, Marcus has been on-site since the evacuation."
Marcus and I exchange nods—professional acknowledgment without unnecessary conversation. Brandon knocks before opening the door.
"She's been asking for you since four AM," Brandon says. "Wouldn't stop until we contacted Mr. Voss to coordinate getting you here. She's made it very clear she wants you involved in the security design."
The door opens, and I see Lana for the first time in a week.
She's standing by the window looking like she hasn't slept, still wearing what must be the closest thing she grabbed when they evacuated her, and the week of space collapses into the immediate reality of her being threatened in ways professional security couldn't prevent.
"Jax." My name comes out like something between relief and accusation. "He was in my apartment. While I was sleeping."
Brandon clears his throat. "I'll give you two some space to discuss the security assessment.
Marcus and I will be right outside if you need anything.
Mr. Hills, take whatever time you need to evaluate the location and discuss protection protocols with Ms. Pope.
" He's already moving toward the door, Marcus following, both of them maintaining professional distance while clearly recognizing this conversation needs privacy.
The door closes behind them, leaving us alone in the safe house.
"Are you hurt?" I'm moving closer without meaning to, professional distance collapsing into the immediate need to confirm she's actually unharmed.
"No. He didn't touch me. Just left that message on my mirror. Like he wanted me to know he could have but chose not to." She takes a shaking breath. "This time."
The implication makes my chest tighten. Trask was close enough to hurt her and instead chose psychological damage—proving he has access whenever he wants it, that professional security can't actually keep her safe.
"I'm here to design security for this location. Something he can't bypass." I'm keeping my voice professional even though every instinct is screaming to close the distance between us, to pull her against me and confirm she's actually safe.
"Security design?" Her expression shifts to something complicated—fear and frustration and anger mixing together.
"I don't want security design, Jax. I want you to tell me how to actually be safe.
Because professional security had someone posted at my door and Trask still got into my bedroom. So clearly what I have isn't working."
"Blackwood is good—"
"Blackwood didn't stop him. You would have." She's moving closer now, closing the distance I was trying to maintain. "You would have seen him coming, would have known he was watching patterns, would have stopped him before he got anywhere near my apartment. Admit it."
She's right, and we both know it. The surveillance I had installed would have caught Trask conducting reconnaissance.
I would have seen the pattern analysis, the timing of bathroom breaks being observed, the preparation before penetration.
But admitting that means admitting professional security isn't sufficient, that she needs exactly the kind of surveillance I agreed to discontinue.
"Lana—"
"He was in my bedroom, Jax. Moved my phone.
Left that message. And I didn't even know until Andre’s forced entrance woke me up.
" Her voice breaks. "So tell me—do I want you for protection, or do I want you because you're the only person who can actually keep me safe?
Because right now I can't tell the difference, and I don't care. "
The confession hangs between us—raw, desperate, the kind of honesty that only comes when fear strips away every careful construction.
She's asking me to tell her what she feels, to solve the equation we've both been trying to work through for a week.
Except I can't give her that answer because I'm still trying to figure out the same thing about myself.
"You're scared," I say, even though the assessment feels inadequate. "Trask violated your space in the worst possible way. Of course you want the person who you think can prevent that from happening again."
"I missed you before he broke in." Her voice is steadier now, the initial panic giving way to something more controlled. "I spent a week wanting to text you about things that had nothing to do with threats. So don't tell me this is just fear talking."
She's right, and we both know it. I spent the same week checking traffic cameras near her building even though I promised Elias I'd stop completely. Telling myself it was threat monitoring when really I just needed to see her moving through space I couldn't access anymore.
"You know I can't keep removing surveillance and reinstalling it every time circumstances shift," I say. "Either we commit to figuring this out together, complications and all, or we maintain complete separation. Those are the only options that don't destroy both of us."
She's watching me with an expression I can't quite decode—something between frustration and understanding. "What does committing look like?"
"It looks like me reinstalling security at your apartment with Blackwood's oversight.
It looks like us having actual conversations about what we want instead of testing boundaries through crisis.
" I close the distance between us, but stop when I'm close enough to see the exhaustion in her face.
"And it looks like acknowledging that attraction and protection are entangled and maybe that's okay. "
"Solange is going to say this is exactly what she warned me about. That I'm trading one cage for another just because this one feels safer."
"Solange might be right. Or she might be wrong.
But we won't know unless we actually try this instead of endlessly analyzing whether it's healthy.
" I finally let my hands reach for her, frame her face the way I did when we first kissed.
"Lana, I'm going to help keep you safe. And we're going to figure out if what's between us survives when crisis isn't the only thing driving contact.
Those two things happen simultaneously or not at all. "
She leans into my hands, closes her eyes like the contact is something she's been starving for. "Okay."
"Okay you want me to help with security, or okay you want to actually try this?"
"Both. All of it." Her hands come up to cover mine where they're still framing her face. "Everything we've been circling around for weeks."
"Then stop overthinking it." I pull her closer, eliminating the distance we've been maintaining. "Right now you need rest. You've been awake since three AM processing a break-in. I'll coordinate with Blackwood about security upgrades while you sleep."
She nods, exhaustion finally winning over adrenaline. "Will you stay? In the safe house? I don't want to be alone right now."
"I'll stay." I'm already thinking through logistics. "But let me do the assessment I came here for first. Walk the perimeter, identify what security upgrades this place needs."
"You'll actually install everything? Not just design it?"
"I'll install what needs installing. Make sure you're protected properly." I pull out my phone and start making notes. "Get some rest. I'll work while you sleep."
She moves toward the bedroom, pauses at the door. "Jax? Thank you. For coming when I asked for you."
"You don't have to thank me for caring about you."
"I know. But I'm thanking you anyway."
The bedroom door closes, leaving me alone to do the work I'm supposedly here for.
I spend the next two hours conducting a thorough assessment of the safe house.
The tenth-floor location is good—no fire escape access, controlled building entry, solid baseline security.
But there are vulnerabilities Trask could exploit if he's patient enough.
The windows need motion sensors. The door needs a secondary lock system.
The hallway approach requires cameras with backup monitoring. The interior itself wouldn’t need cameras, since there will be sensors and security agents on guard around the clock.
I text Brandon a detailed equipment list: motion sensors (window and door), upgraded lock system, three discrete cameras with redundant power supplies, monitoring equipment that feeds to my phone and Blackwood's system simultaneously.
Everything that makes penetration impossible rather than just difficult.
His response comes within minutes: Equipment ordered. Arrives tomorrow AM. You staying on-site?
Me: Yes. Installing everything myself. She needs security that actually works.
Brandon: Understood. Marcus will maintain the exterior position. Let us know if you need additional support.
By the time I finish the assessment and coordinate with Brandon, it's past noon. Lana is still sleeping—the combination of sleeping pill residue and adrenaline crash will probably keeping her under for a few more hours.
I settle on the couch with my laptop, already designing the security system I'll install tomorrow, mapping camera angles and sensor placements with the kind of focus that keeps me from thinking about how completely I've abandoned professional distance.
But she's safe. She asked for me specifically. And for the first time in a week, the space between wanting and having feels like something we might actually bridge.