5. Jax
five
Jax
T he container yard sprawls like a metal canyon under sodium floodlights. Shipping containers stack four stories high, creating walls that turn the makeshift course into a death trap of blind corners and elevation changes.
The asphalt gleams wet from marine fog rolling off the harbor, oil slicks creating rainbow patterns that promise spectacular wipeouts.
Perfect conditions for someone with a death wish.
Which apparently I have, since all I can think about is her watching.
"Ace!" Gideon's voice booms across the staging area. "Got something special for you."
He's standing next to a motorcycle—a Ducati Panigale V4, cherry red with carbon fiber everything, the kind of bike that costs more than a new BMW and goes faster than God intended.
My blood turns to ice water.
"Remember when you could make a bike sing?" Gideon's grin is pure nostalgia. "Thought you might want to show these kids what real riding looks like."
The bike gleams under the lights, all deadly curves and barely contained violence. Just looking at it makes my shoulder throb again.
Tommy's bike was red too. Looked just like this when they scraped him off the barrier.
"I don't ride anymore." The words come out through gritted teeth, my jaw so tight it aches.
"Come on, kid. It's been what? Twelve years? Time to get back on the horse."
"I said no." My voice drops to something dangerous, and several nearby drivers take a step back.
Gideon studies my face, and I see the moment he understands. The memory of Tommy bleeding out on the track, the sight of his spine snapping, the way his bike kept sliding for another hundred feet without him.
"Cars then," he says, switching gears smoothly. "Got a Mercedes AMG that needs a driver. Unless you're scared of four wheels too?"
The challenge in his voice makes my hands clench. Around us, other drivers are watching, whispering. The legendary Jax Ryder, too scared to race.
Fuck that. And fuck him for knowing exactly which buttons to push.
"Where's the car?"
He leads me to a murdered-out Mercedes-AMG GT Black Series, the kind of machine that looks like it escaped from hell's motor pool. Matte black paint that seems to absorb light, a rear wing that could double as a dining table, and enough horsepower to break the sound barrier.
"She's got 720 horses under the hood," Gideon says, running his hand along the carbon fiber splitter. "Launch control, drift mode, and a top speed that'll make you see God."
I slide into the driver's seat, and the racing harness hugs me like an old lover. The steering wheel feels perfect in my hands. Alcantara grip worn just right, paddle shifters positioned exactly where my fingers fall naturally.
This is better. Four wheels. Stable. Safe. Relatively.
"Qualifying runs start in two minutes!" The announcement echoes across the yard. "Drivers, final prep!"
I put on the helmet and fire up the Mercedes. The engine doesn't scream—it growls, low and menacing, like a predator warning others away from its kill. The whole chassis vibrates with barely contained violence, 720 horses chomping at the bit.
My hands are steady on the wheel, but my mind is chaos.
Is she watching? She said she'd watch from the spectator area. But that's not her style. She's somewhere else. Somewhere she shouldn't be.
"Nitro, you're up first," Gideon calls out. "Show them how it's done."
I roll to the starting line, the Mercedes prowling forward on massive Michelin Pilot Sport Cup 2s that grip the asphalt like they're fused to it. The course stretches ahead—a nightmare of tight corners, elevation changes, and walls of steel that don't forgive mistakes.
Sixty seconds to prove I'm still worth something. Sixty seconds to make her notice.
Concentrate on the race. Not on her. The race.
But I can still feel the ghost of her thumb brushing my knuckles. Still smell her perfume. Still see the way she walked away in that dress, every step calculated to destroy me.
"Ready?" The starter holds up the flag.
I nod, revving the engine. The tachometer swings toward redline, and the whole car shudders with anticipation. My foot hovers over the launch control button. One press and this thing will catapult me forward like a missile.
The flag drops.
I nail the launch control. The Mercedes explodes forward with violence that slams me back into the seat. Zero to sixty in 2.9 seconds, the acceleration crushing my chest, making it hard to breathe. The first corner rushes up—a sharp right-hander that wants to send me straight into a container wall.
Don't lift. Never lift.
I throw the car sideways without touching the brakes, using momentum and controlled chaos to drift through the turn.
The rear tires break loose, screaming their protest as they paint black lines across wet asphalt.
The wall flashes by inches from my mirror, close enough that I could reach out and touch rusted metal.
The course opens onto a short straight flanked by container canyons. I bury the throttle, shifting up through the gears with violent precision. Third. Fourth. Fifth. The speedometer climbs past numbers that have no business existing in a space this tight—80, 90, 100 mph between the walls of steel.
This is insane. This is perfect. This is what I needed.
The chicane comes up like a snake strike—three rapid direction changes designed to break rhythm and bones. I attack it with calculated aggression, the Mercedes dancing on the edge of physics. Left, right, left, the car rotating around its axis while somehow maintaining forward momentum.
Each transition threatens to send me spinning, but I hold it together through pure stubbornness and muscle memory. The steering wheel fights me, power steering struggling to keep up with inputs that shouldn't be possible. My forearms burn from the effort, but I don't care.
She's watching. Has to be watching.
An elevation change launches me slightly airborne. For a heartbeat, I'm weightless, floating, the engine note changing as the wheels lose contact with Earth. Then gravity slams me back down, suspension bottoming out with a crack that rattles my teeth.
The split-second landing costs me momentum. I compensate by taking the next corner even more aggressively, drifting so close to the container that paint transfers to metal with a shriek that sounds expensive.
Gideon's gonna be pissed about the paint. Worth it.
The course narrows, containers creating a tunnel barely wide enough for the Mercedes. No margin for error here. One twitch of the wheel and I'm eating steel at triple-digit speeds. The smart move is to play it safe.
Fuck safe.
I keep the throttle pinned, threading the needle at speeds that blur the container walls into abstract patterns.
The Mercedes fills the entire width of the passage, mirrors folding back from proximity.
The engine note echoes off metal walls, creating a symphony of mechanical violence that drowns out rational thought.
Final sector. A decreasing radius turn that's killed more drivers than any other corner in illegal racing history. It starts wide and welcoming, then tightens like a noose, sucking you toward the wall if you don't adjust your line perfectly.
I enter too hot, too aggressive, chasing ghosts and lap times. The rear breaks loose completely, and suddenly I'm sliding sideways at seventy miles per hour toward certain impact.
This is how Tommy died. Too fast into a corner he couldn't handle.
Time dilates. Everything slows to individual frames I can process and adjust. Counter-steer. Feather the throttle. Feel the exact moment the rear tires start to grip again. The car snaps back into line inches from disaster, close enough that I can see individual rivets in the container wall.
The finish line appears—two flaming barrels marking the end of the course. I cross sideways, still drifting, because why not show off when you're already this deep?
"Fifty-six point three seconds!" Gideon's voice booms through the speakers. "Jesus Christ, Ace!"
I bring the Mercedes to a stop, engine ticking as it cools, my hands trembling on the wheel. Not from fear—from the comedown. From the absence of speed and danger and that perfect edge between control and chaos.
Fifty-six point three. Fast enough?
I climb out on unsteady legs, and the crowd's already buzzing. Other drivers shake their heads, knowing they'll have to push even harder to beat that time. Gideon's grinning like a proud father, clapping me on the back hard enough to bruise.
"That's the Jax I remember," he says. "Absolute fucking insanity."
But I'm not listening. I'm scanning the crowd here, the spectator areas, the VIP section. Looking for dark hair and predator eyes. Looking for her.
Nothing.
Where are you?
"Nice driving."
The voice comes from behind me, near the staging area where spectators shouldn't be. I spin around, and there she is, materialized from shadows like smoke.
The burgundy dress is gone, replaced with tight black pants and a leather jacket that does nothing to hide her curves. Her hair is pulled back, revealing the elegant line of her neck. Those hazel-green eyes study me with an intensity that makes my blood heat.
How the fuck did she get back here?
"You're not supposed to be in the staging area," I say, my voice coming out rough.
"I go where I want." She steps closer, and I catch that scent again—expensive perfume with an undertone of danger. "Fifty-six seconds. Impressive."
"Could've been faster."
"Could've been dead." Her eyes track over my face, reading something there. "You race like someone with nothing to lose."
Wrong. I race like someone with everything to prove.
"Maybe I just like going fast."
"No." She moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. "You race as if you're trying to outrun something. Or catch up to it."
The observation hits too close to home. Tommy. My parents. The gambling addiction. All the ghosts I can't shake no matter how fast I drive.
"Speaking from experience?"
Something flickers in her eyes—recognition, maybe. Or warning.
"We all have things we're running from, Jax."
The way she says my name makes my cock twitch in my jeans. Again.
Jesus , get it together.
"Transport loading for venue two!" The announcement shatters the moment. "Participants only!"
She steps back, and the loss of proximity feels like losing oxygen.
"You should go," she says. "Don't want to miss your next race."
"What about you?"
Her smile is all predator. "I told you. I go where I want."
She turns to leave, moving toward the restricted area where security doesn't patrol, where the container maze gets more complex. Where someone could easily disappear if they knew what they were doing.
"That's dangerous," I call after her. "Security sweeps those areas."
She pauses, glances back over her shoulder. "Worried about me?"
Yes. Desperately. Irrationally.
"Maybe."
"Don't be." Her smile sharpens. "I can take care of myself."
She disappears between containers, moving with a fluid grace that makes my brain scream warnings. Everything about her is wrong—the restricted access, the tactical clothes, the way she moves like a predator hunting prey.
She's dangerous. Stay away.
But my feet are already moving to follow her.
"Ace!" Gideon's voice stops me. "Van's loading. You coming or not?"
I look back at the gap between containers where she vanished. Empty shadows and industrial lighting. Like she was never there at all.
"Yeah," I manage. "Coming."
I climb into the transport van, squeezing between other drivers. But all I can think about is the way she moved through those shadows. The warning in her eyes when she said we all have things we're running from.
What are you running from, Mira?
My phone buzzes. Text from a private number: "Stop looking for me. I'll find you when I'm ready."
My pulse kicks up another notch. She has my number. She's watching. She's hunting.
Good. Let her hunt. I want to be caught.
Another text appears: "Venue two. Northeast corner. After your race."
I delete the messages immediately, operational security kicking in. But the promise burns in my chest like swallowed fire.
"You good, Ace?" One of the other drivers asks. "You look wired."
"Never better," I lie, fighting the urge to pull out my keys and spin them in the familiar rhythm that usually grounds me.
The van rumbles through Long Beach streets, heading toward the next venue. Through the window, industrial buildings blur past like ghosts. Somewhere out there, she's moving through shadows, hunting something or someone.
Northeast corner. After your race.
The thought of seeing her again makes my hands shake worse than any gambling withdrawal. Makes my blood run hot and cold at the same time.
Cole's voice comes through my earpiece. "Vitals are spiking again. What's happening?"
I pull the earpiece out, stuff it in my pocket again.
What's happening is I'm about to do something incredibly stupid. Something that could compromise the mission, the team, everything.
I don't care.
The van pulls into the second venue—an abandoned industrial complex that looks like a cemetery for machinery. Perfect place for dangerous decisions.
I climb out, already scanning for the northeast corner. Already planning how to slip away after my race. Already imagining what she wants, what she needs, what game she's playing.
Find me when you're ready.
I'm ready now. Ready to dive headfirst into whatever danger she represents.
The other drivers are already checking out the course, discussing strategy. I need to focus on the race. On winning. On maintaining cover.
But I'm counting down minutes until I can find her in the shadows.
Until I can find out what we're really running from.
Or toward.