13. Jax
thirteen
Jax
" W elcome to where real drivers prove themselves." Gideon's voice carries pride that turns my stomach.
The concrete arteries of the Los Angeles River throb with illegal energy as I follow Gideon deeper into the underground racing scene.
Oil barrel fires throw orange shadows against drainage walls, smoke mixing with exhaust fumes and the metallic tang of blood from earlier fights.
Makeshift grandstands overflow with criminals, thrill-seekers, and predators betting with dirty money.
Twenty-four hours since Mira sat across from Sasha while I listened through comms, knowing something was wrong. Not with the mission. With her. With us.
My fingers tap against my thigh—morse code for fucked, fucked, fucked. Can't keep them still. Haven't eaten since yesterday. Coffee tastes burned, coating my tongue with ash.
Three days since our private meeting at the academy, and his recruitment pitch led exactly where my team expected—straight into the criminal heart of his operation.
The roar of engines vibrates through concrete. Money changes hands in lightning-fast exchanges, bills crumpling, being shoved into pockets.
"Nice setup." I keep my voice steady while memorizing exit routes. "Definitely not your average Friday night race."
"We cater to clients with specific tastes and substantial resources."
Before I can respond, a mountain of muscle in Italian tailoring approaches. His pale eyes assess me—meat at market.
"This is Viktor Kazakov." Gideon gestures. "Viktor, meet Jax Ryder—the driver I mentioned."
Viktor's handshake could grind bones. "The famous Ace. Your reputation precedes you."
Reputation from who? And why is a Russian running evaluation on American operations?
"Just a driver looking for profitable opportunities." I meet his intensity with practiced ease.
"Modesty. I appreciate this quality." Viktor turns to Gideon. "Your recommendation carries significant weight in our expanding operations."
Through my nearly invisible earpiece, her voice cuts through after twenty-four hours of silence: "I have eyes on you from the crane position. Viktor has three weapons—shoulder holster, ankle piece, knife at his waist."
Fuck. Mira's voice hits my system harder than any drug. My cock hardens instantly—painful, immediate need. Days of wanting her, and she's somewhere above me, watching everything.
"The waist knife." Her precise tone somehow makes it worse. "He touches it when he's lying. Count the tells."
Her brilliance while I stand here trying not to shake sends heat racing through my blood. My fingers drum faster against my leg. Need something to bet on. Need something to control. Need her, but can't have her, so the itch redirects to the only thing that comes close—risk.
"Your turn, Ace." Gideon points toward a modified Mustang, its engine growling promises of illegal speed. "Show our guests what California racing produces."
Cole's voice joins the comm channel: "Try not to lose your shirt this time, brother."
"Fuck off," I mutter.
"Just saying, last time you were this twitchy, you lost a hundred grand in one night."
He's not wrong. The tell is obvious to anyone who knows me—fingers moving, can't stay still, that particular hunger that says I'm about to do something spectacularly stupid with money.
I slide behind the Mustang's wheel. The engine's vibration travels through my bones as I position at the starting line. Three other drivers idle beside me, their faces carved from desperation and violence.
The flag drops.
Tires scream against concrete. I try to concentrate on the track, but her breathing in my ear fractures my concentration.
The competent way she processes threats, how she'd sound if I had her underneath me—every thought splits my attention.
The familiar rush of racing pales next to the addiction of her voice.
"Focus." Not teasing. An order. "You're driving amateur lines."
She's right. I take the first turn too wide, tires squealing as I over-correct. My attention splits between the track and obsessive thoughts about where exactly she's positioned. Can she see all the angles? Is anyone watching her?
"Second car has nitrous. Watch his hand on the gear shift."
Her observation saves me from getting boxed in, but the second turn goes wide again. The driver beside me steals the inside line I should have owned.
I finish second. Second. When was the last time I didn't win?
"Interesting performance." Viktor watches me climb out, my shirt soaked through with sweat. "Your lines suffered in the middle section."
"Distracted by something?" Gideon's eyes narrow, reading my body language the way he used to analyze my racing technique.
"Calculating betting odds." I force my old charming grin. "That driver in the red Civic—his technique suggests amateur training, but his tire pressure says professional. Mixed signals mean insider information. Easy money."
Viktor's cold smile widens. "A man after my own heart. Maria handles our evening's entertainment wagering."
He gestures toward a woman with calculating eyes manning a betting station. Stacks of cash tower around her, rubber bands straining.
The itch intensifies. That familiar sensation of standing at cliff's edge, knowing the fall will hurt but needing the drop anyway. Can't have Mira, can't touch her, can't even be near her. But I can have this—the rush, the risk, the moment when everything hangs on chance.
"What kinds of odds are we talking about?"
"Depends on your appetite for risk." Maria's assessment cuts straight through me. "Next race starts in ten minutes. Five drivers, all unknowns."
The smart play is walking away. The smart play is always walking away.
"Minimum?"
"Five hundred. Maximum? Depends how deep your pockets run."
I check my phone. Crypto wallet: 1,832 XMR immediately accessible. The $500k of Monero I swore I'd never touch for gambling, but why else keep untraceable currency?
"Fifty thousand on the blue Honda." I pull up the transfer app. "Driver's ex-military. See how he checks mirrors at exact intervals? Tactical training."
Maria nods, scanning my QR code. Anonymous digital transfer, no paper trail.
Viktor and Gideon exchange loaded glances—this is serious commitment.
"Jesus Christ," Cole mutters through the comm. "Fifty grand? You're spiraling."
"I'm building cover," I mutter back.
"You're substituting." Asher's clinical tone cuts deeper than Cole's concern. "Can't have what you actually want so you're chasing the next best high."
He's right. They're both right. But admitting it won't change anything.
"Bold play," Viktor murmurs. "Very bold."
"Jax." Warning threads through Mira's voice. "That's reckless."
But I'm already committed. The race begins—the blue Honda tears through the course with military precision, exactly as predicted. The high of being right, of controlling chaos through prediction, is nothing compared to what I really want, but it's something.
"Your instincts are exceptional." Viktor watches Maria count out my hundred thousand. "How did you know?"
"Same way I know your next shipment needs drivers familiar with Long Beach Port routes." The words tumble out, another calculated risk. "Sasha mentioned you might need someone discrete."
Viktor goes still. Gideon's hand drifts toward his weapon.
Silence stretches until Viktor laughs, a sound like sharp glass breaking.
"Kozlov was right. You are exactly what we need." He gestures toward a shipping container converted into VIP space. "Perhaps we continue this privately?"
"Moving to secondary location," I murmur into my collar.
"Copy. Maintaining overwatch." Her voice stays steady, but something underneath catches—concern. She's worried about me. The thought makes my chest tight.
Inside the container, Gideon spreads route maps across a metal table while Viktor pours three glasses of vodka, the bottle sweating condensation.
"Racing provides perfect cover for specialized transportation." Viktor gestures at the maps. "Long Beach Grand Prix next weekend creates ideal chaos for our largest shipment."
"What kind of cargo?"
"Discrete units requiring careful handling." His euphemism makes bile rise. "Four containers of mixed inventory from Prague connections."
Four containers. People. They're talking about people.
"Ventilation modifications visible on twelve containers from my position," Mira reports. "This is large scale."
Her assessment anchors me when I want to tear these monsters apart. The gambling high crashes immediately, replaced by nausea that burns my throat.
"Transportation timeline?"
"Tomorrow night. After the racing crowds disperse, you drive lead vehicle to distribution points."
I'll be driving people to hell.
"Payment?"
"Fifty thousand per successful delivery."
Two hundred thousand dollars for trafficking humans. The vodka turns to acid on my tongue.
"Routes?"
Gideon traces paths on the map with one finger. "Port to Vernon facility. One-hour window during shift change."
"Security?"
"Minimal. Racing provides distraction, media coverage, perfect chaos."
Through my earpiece, I hear Mira shifting position, reminding me she's real, she's there, she's watching.
"I'm in," I force out.
Viktor raises his glass. "To profitable partnerships and mutual prosperity."
I drink vodka that burns while mapping every detail for later intelligence sharing.
"Your racing experience provides legitimate cover," Viktor continues. "Tomorrow you become essential to our operations."
Everything I loved about racing has been poisoned by these monsters.
"Looking forward to it."
"As are we. Your reputation precedes you, but your commitment exceeds expectations."
We discuss logistics for another ten minutes: pickup times, route variations, emergency protocols. Every word is intelligence that will save lives but delivering it means participating in horror.
"Gentlemen, this has been enlightening." I stand, chair scraping against metal. "Tomorrow night, then."
"Tomorrow night," Viktor confirms. "Welcome to the real money, Ace."
I walk back through the underground venue, hundred thousand burning in my pocket alongside intel that could help destroy these operations.
But worse than both is the need scorching through my veins. Won the bet but feel emptier than before. Because it's not the money I wanted, it's her voice saying my name the way it matters.
"Clear for extraction," Mira says. "Roof access, southeast corner. Maintenance ladder behind the third pillar."
"The roof?"
"Now, Jax."
The climb takes everything I have left. My hands shake on cold metal rungs, not from exertion but from withdrawal. From needing her voice, her presence, her. Days of substituting everything else for what I really want.
She's waiting at the edge, city lights spreading behind her in fractured patterns. Wind whips her hair as she tracks my approach, every line of her body coiled with lethal grace. Moonlight turns her into something mythical, something dangerous, beautiful, completely untouchable.
"You bet fifty thousand dollars."
"I won a hundred thousand."
"That's not the point." She steps closer, close enough that I can see her pulse jumping at her throat. "You're coming undone."
"Maybe." The word scrapes out raw. "Can't have what I want so I'm taking what I can get."
"What do you want?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with days of accumulated need.
"You know what I want."
She moves closer, until we're almost touching. "Say it."
"You. I want you so badly I can't think straight. Can't eat. Can't sleep. Can't do anything but bet money I shouldn't touch because at least that rush lasts sixty seconds."
"Sixty seconds?"
"How long the high lasts. Then I'm right back to wanting you."
Something shifts in her expression. For one second, the mask slips and I see hunger that matches mine.
"Tomorrow you drive containers full of trafficking victims."
"I know."
"Can you do it? Can you deliver people to hell for this operation?"
"Not alone." I lean toward her, close enough to share breath. "But if you're in my ear? If I can hear you breathing? Then yeah. I can be the monster long enough to stop the real ones."
"That's dangerous thinking."
"Everything about this is dangerous." My hand moves toward her face, stopping just short of contact. "But I need you there. Need your voice keeping me human while I do inhuman things."
She mirrors my almost-touch, her fingers hovering near my cheek. "The team knows you're gambling again."
"They know I'm substituting. Can't touch you so I'm chasing the next best rush."
Her pupils dilate. "Jax..."
"I know. We can't. Not yet. Not until—"
"Not until this is over." Her voice cracks. "Not until we know who lives through this."
The admission hangs between us, that one or both of us might not survive what's coming.
"I'll be in your ear tomorrow," she says, pulling back but keeping her eyes locked on mine. "Every second. Every breath. I'll keep you human while you drive through hell."
"And after?"
"After, we figure out if there's anything left of us worth saving."
She turns to leave, then stops at the roof access door. "Don't bet any more money tonight, Jax."
"Why?"
She looks back, and for one second I see raw hunger that matches mine. "Because tomorrow you're going to need all that reckless energy."