8. Mira
eight
Mira
T he knife balances perfectly on my fingertip, spinning slow rotations in the condo's soft lighting. Throw. Catch. Throw. Catch. The rhythm usually centers me, but tonight my mind keeps drifting to the restaurant. To his hand covering mine. To the way his voice cracked when he had to leave.
Weak. You're getting weak.
The burner phone buzzes against the nightstand, breaking my concentration. The knife clatters to the floor.
Jax's name lights up the screen. I pick up the phone, read the message.
Jax: Hey it's Jax. The guy whose brain you melted at dinner.
My pulse jumps. I set the knife aside, watch three dots appear on screen.
Jax: That sounded smoother in my head.
Another buzz.
Jax: Anyway something came up with work but I need to see you.
Jax: Not need need. Want. But also need.
Jax: Christ I'm bad at this.
The rambling makes me smile before I catch myself. I stand, pace to the window, watching LA's lights sprawl below while my fingers hover over the keyboard.
Me: You're right. You are bad at this.
Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again.
Jax: Yeah well you scrambled my brain with that wine glass thing so really this is your fault.
Jax: Where can I meet you? Please say somewhere without wine glasses.
The desperation bleeds through even in text. Something happened after he left. Something that shook him.
Me: Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Midnight. Near the Valentino memorial.
Jax: A cemetery? That's... actually perfect. Weird but perfect.
Me: Try not to be late this time.
Jax: I'm never late. I arrive precisely when I mean to. Usually. Sometimes. Fuck.
I set the phone down and move to the mirror. Black jeans that look painted on. Dark shirt that shows just enough skin to distract. Ankle holster with my favorite blade. Glock in the shoulder holster hidden under my jacket. Hair loose, the way it was when his fingers almost tangled in it.
You're dressing for him.
No. I'm dressing to destroy him. There's a difference.
My hands move through preparation rituals—checking weapons, testing flexibility, ensuring nothing restricts movement. But my mind keeps drifting to the way he said he needed to see me. Not the smooth operator persona. Just raw need.
Focus. He's vulnerable. Use it.
The cemetery fence is nothing—up and over in three seconds, landing silent on manicured grass. The Hollywood sign glows in the distance, and somewhere an owl calls through the darkness.
Fairbank's memorial sits pristine white against shadow. I position myself where I can see all approaches, back to stone, exits noted. I wonder if Jax knows the irony of meeting here.
I check my phone. 11:58.
A car door shuts in the distance. Footsteps on gravel. Uneven, like he's stumbling. He's distressed.
He appears through the trees, and my chest tightens at the sight. His hair's a mess from running his hands through it. His eyes are red-rimmed, puffy. His features are drawn with grief so raw it makes my breath catch.
Someone died. Or might as well have.
"You came," he says, voice rough. He stops ten feet away, swaying slightly like he's not sure he should come closer.
"You asked."
He moves closer, and I can see his hands shaking. "I shouldn't have. This is—fuck, I don't even know what this is. I just needed—"
He starts pacing, three steps left, three steps right, hands gesturing wildly. "You ever have your whole world flip upside down in like thirty seconds? Like everything you thought was true just... wasn't?"
"What happened?"
The question cuts through his rambling. He stops pacing, runs both hands through his hair, making it stick up worse.
"Work stuff. Family stuff. Can't really talk about it.
" His laugh is broken glass. "Someone I thought was gone might not be gone, but if they're not gone then they chose to be gone, which is almost worse than them being actually gone. Does that make sense?"
"Yes."
It does. Betrayal hurts worse than death. Death just happens. Betrayal is a choice.
His eyes meet mine, surprised by the understanding. He steps closer, close enough that I can smell scotch and salt. He's been crying.
"You've lost people."
"Everyone loses people."
"Not everyone loses them like this."
The pain in his voice makes something twist in my chest. Use it. This is perfect. He's completely vulnerable.
I close the distance between us, my hand rising to his chest. His heart hammers under my palm. "Tell me what you need."
"I need to not think." His hand covers mine on his chest, thumb stroking over my knuckles. His other hand rises like he's going to touch my face, hovers there, drops. He shifts his weight, rocks back on his heels, forward again. "I need to forget everything for five fucking minutes. I need—"
Red dots appear on his chest. Three of them. Then two more track across my body, settling on my heart.
His transformation is instant.
His hand shoots out, grabbing my waist and yanking me sideways. We roll behind the memorial as the first shots crack through the air. Marble explodes where my head was. He's already up on one knee, pulling a Glock from under his jacket while his other hand pushes me lower.
"Stay down."
The broken man is gone. This is the operator, the killer, the one who survived whatever hell trained him. Tears are still damp on his face, but his hands are steady as he checks the magazine, chambers a round.
He came to a cemetery armed. Smart boy.
"Little swan." The voice echoes through a hidden speaker, Russian accent thick with amusement. "You've been teaching the dog new tricks."
Alexei.
No. Not here. Not now.
"Friend of yours?" Jax shifts position, pressing his back against the marble while scanning our flanks.
"Former uncle."
"The one who—"
"Yes."
His jaw tightens. He rises slightly, fires two shots, ducks back as return fire chips away more marble. "How many?"
I crawl to the edge, peer around for half a second, counting muzzle flashes. "Six. Two high, four approaching on foot."
"On three, we move. My car's fifty yards north." He's already pulling something from his pocket—flash bang.
Where the fuck did he get that?
"That's open ground."
"Not for long." He shifts into a crouch, muscles coiling. "One."
His free hand finds mine, squeezes once. Our bodies align, ready to sprint.
"Two."
He turns his head, looks at me, and despite everything—the bullets, the danger, his grief—there's heat in his eyes that makes my whole body clench.
"Three."
The flash bang arcs through the air. We're already moving, running low and fast as the world explodes in white light behind us.
The first shooter stumbles from behind a headstone, blinded. Jax doesn't hesitate. Two shots center mass, one to the head. The body drops before I fully register the movement.
Tears still on his face, but his hands don't shake.
The second one recovers faster, swinging his rifle toward me. Jax shoves me behind a stone angel as bullets chip away marble inches from his head. Sharp stone fragments cut across his cheek, blood immediately welling up.
"You hit?"
"Keep moving."
But he's already turning, firing three rounds that drop the shooter mid-reload. Professional. Precise. The grief hasn't made him sloppy—it's made him vicious.
Something hot and violent unfurls in my chest. Mine to protect.
We sprint between headstones, using them as cover. Another shooter appears to our right. I pull my blade, but Jax is already there, grabbing the man's rifle barrel, yanking him forward into a knee strike that caves in his throat. He takes the rifle, uses it to cave in the man's skull.
Blood spatters across his face. He doesn't wipe it off.
"Car," he says, grabbing my hand.
We run.
The Mercedes roars to life before I'm fully inside. I'm still pulling my door closed when he punches it, tires screaming as we fishtail onto Santa Monica Boulevard.
"Seatbelt," he says, taking a corner so hard the tires smoke.
I twist to look back. Three black SUVs pour from the cemetery gates, engines howling.
"Three vehicles. Full tactical teams."
"Copy." His voice is steady now, operational. Blood runs down his face from the cuts, dripping onto his collar. He doesn't seem to notice.
The first SUV rams us from behind. The Mercedes lurches forward, and Jax corrects without flinching, downshifting to regain control.
"Cole, I need routes." He's activated his earpiece. "Three hostiles, heading west on Santa Monica."
I hear a quiet voice respond but can't make out words.
"Negative, can't lose them on surface streets. Going vertical."
Vertical?
He yanks the wheel hard right, jumping the curb into a parking garage. We spiral up, tires shrieking on concrete. The SUVs follow, their heavier frames struggling with the tight turns.
"When we hit the top, hold on."
"What are you—"
We explode onto the roof level. Dead end. Concrete wall ahead. The SUVs are right behind us.
Jax floors it toward the wall.
"Jax!"
At the last second, he yanks the e-brake, spinning us 180 degrees. We're facing the SUVs head-on now, and I can see the drivers' eyes widen.
"Down!"
He grabs my head, pushes it below the dashboard as he accelerates straight at them. The lead SUV tries to swerve. Too late. We clip their front quarter panel, sending them spinning into a concrete pillar.
The crash is tremendous. Metal shrieking, glass exploding.
We're already past them, diving back down the spiral ramp. My body presses against the door from the g-force.
"Two left," I report, checking the mirrors.
"Not for long."
We burst from the garage onto Wilshire. He takes a hard left, then an immediate right into an alley. It's too narrow for the SUVs. They overshoot, have to reverse.
"Ghost, I need an intercept." His voice stays level despite the blood now soaking his collar. "Westwood and Ohio."
More murmured response.
"Understood."
He cuts through a loading dock, jumps another curb, slides between two buildings barely wide enough for the Mercedes. Metal scrapes both sides, but we're through.