16. Jax
sixteen
Jax
I slam my shoulder against the container's cold steel as another wave of nausea hits. The Vernon facility stretches ahead—rows of shipping containers like tombstones in the gray dawn.
My stomach's been in knots since last night's almost-fuck in the casino corridor, her perfume still clinging to my shirt making everything worse.
"Time you saw real business, kid." Gideon grabs my elbow when I sway, steadying me through the maze of metal. "You look like hell. When's the last time you ate?"
"Coffee counts as food, right?" The joke falls flat. Truth is, even water makes me queasy. Eighteen days of wanting her has my body eating itself from the inside.
We move deeper into the facility, my fingers trailing along the corrugated metal for balance. The concrete reeks of diesel and something darker—desperation, fear.
"Impressive logistics coordination." My voice comes out rough, but at least I sound functional.
Through my earpiece, Mira's voice slides like silk. "Good boy, stay focused."
My knees buckle. Gideon catches me as my cock goes instantly, painfully hard. The praise hits like mainlining heroin after days of withdrawal. A whimper escapes before I can stop it.
"Shit," Cole mutters through comms. "Heart rate at 152. Did you keep breakfast down?"
"Nitro, you need to eat something," Remy's voice carries genuine concern now. "You're shaking on camera."
"His vitals are concerning," Asher interjects with clinical precision. "Elevated heart rate, visible tremors. Classic signs of hypoglycemia."
"We can abort if you need—" Cole starts.
"I'm fine," I mutter, cutting him off, though my hands shake as I adjust my jacket and try to look casual.
Three containers retrofitted for human cargo loom against the industrial skyline. The morning wind carries salt from the harbor, mixing with machine oil and rust.
Air circulation systems hum, a mechanical heartbeat keeping future victims alive. Padded walls muffle screams. Restraint points bolted to floors where people will beg.
My stomach lurches. Bile rises, acidic and burning. I press my palm flat against corrugated steel, letting the cold ridges bite into skin, anchoring myself before I vomit on Gideon's shoes.
Through the maze of metal, footsteps echo on wet concrete. Viktor Kazakov emerges from shadows between containers, pale eyes noting my deterioration. His Armani suit looks wrong here, too clean for this graveyard of shipping containers.
"Mr. Ryder." His accent makes my name sound like a diagnosis. "You seem... unwell today."
"Haven't been sleeping." Understatement of the fucking century. My fingers drum against my thigh, not engine timing now but morse code for help I'll never send.
"Ah. Your woman?" His knowing smile makes my skin crawl like insects under the surface.
Through comms, Mira's breath hitches—a sound that shoots straight to my groin. "Tell him yes."
"Something like that." The words scrape out, raw.
"Exactly what I want to hear," she breathes into my ear, and Christ, there's honey in her voice now, thick and golden and—
My knee buckles. I catch myself against the container's edge, metal leaving rust stains on my palms. Her approval hits my bloodstream like pure cocaine. My cock jerks, flooding my boxers with precum that's absolutely going to soak through denim soon.
"The next operation coordinates with the Long Beach Grand Prix." Viktor's words float past me as I struggle to focus. "Maximum distraction, optimal timing."
"Smart cover." My voice cracks on both words.
Through comms, I can hear Cole's worried exhale, but no one speaks. They've already said what needs saying.
"You're being such a good boy for me, sweet boy."
The double praise destroys me. My vision grays at the edges as I drop to one knee, pretending to tie my shoe while the world spins. The concrete is cold and gritty under my palm, and I can feel sweat soaking through my shirt despite the morning chill.
"Perhaps we should continue this later," Viktor suggests. "When you're more... stable."
"I'm fine." But I'm not. My shirt sticks to my back with sweat, and I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples.
"The connection to Alexei Petrov," I manage, remembering why I'm here through the haze of want. "Gideon mentioned Eastern European expansion."
Viktor's eyes sharpen. "Alexei appreciates ambitious young men. Perhaps you'll meet him soon."
The name confirmation cuts through the comms. Mira's sharp intake of breath—genuine, not performed.
"Looking forward to it."
We shake hands, his grip crushing while mine trembles.
Gideon walks me back through the container maze, my fingers trailing along each surface to memorize the route while keeping myself upright.
"You remind me of myself at your age," Gideon says quietly. "All the fire, all the righteousness. I used to believe in things too." He stops walking, staring at the containers. "You know, everyone has a price. Mine just happened to be higher than most."
"Your car's that way," Gideon points toward an exit between two containers. "You sure you can make it without falling over?"
"I can manage." I straighten up, trying to look steadier than I feel.
Gideon frowns as he watches me sway slightly. "You sure you can drive? You look ready to collapse."
"I'm fine." But even I don't believe it anymore.
"Maybe I should drive you—"
"I said I'm fine." I turn away before he can argue further, leaving him standing there looking concerned.
Through comms, Cole's voice is grim: "Team extraction point in five. Try not to collapse."
Twenty-five minutes of navigating this industrial maze, though my phone will claim it was five. Time warps when you're fighting not to puke. Each footstep ricochets off concrete, the sound mixing with distant forklifts and my own ragged breathing.
Somewhere behind me, Viktor and Gideon discuss logistics, human lives reduced to shipping schedules, but their voices fade under the roar of blood in my ears.
"Exit route clear." My voice through comms sounds like gravel in a blender. "Moving to extraction."
"Jesus, you sound wrecked," Cole mutters. "Saint, tell me you've got electrolytes ready."
"Already mixed," Remy confirms. "Though at this rate, we should just hook him to an IV."
Their words washes over me as I navigate by muscle memory more than sight. Left at the blue container. Right at the one with Chinese characters. Straight past the one that reeks of fish. Tommy would've remembered every turn perfectly, remembered each detail for later analysis.
"Almost there, sweet boy." Mira's whisper slides through my ear like warm silk. "You did so well. So perfect for me."
My cock pulses hard enough that I actually stumble, shoulder slamming into a container with a hollow boom. The impact rings through the industrial canyon, echoing off metal walls.
"Smooth," Asher observes dryly through comms.
"Fuck off, Frost." But there's no heat in it. Can't manage heat when every cell is focused on not collapsing.
I reach the extraction point—a black sedan parked between two containers. Mira's behind the wheel, engine already running. I climb into the passenger seat, and the moment the door closes, her scent washes over me.
Jasmine and something darker, need. The same perfume from last night but mixed with her arousal. My mouth waters.
"Come here." Her voice is more inviting that I can handle right now..
I lean across the center console and our mouths crash together. She tastes like desperation and coffee, her tongue sliding against mine with pent-up hunger.
"Can't breathe," I gasp against her lips. "Can't think. Remy made me choke down a protein shake this morning and it came right back up—"
"I know." Her hands shake as she yanks at my belt. "I threw up after breakfast. Cole heard me in the bathroom—"
My hand slides across her thigh, finding her jeans soaked through at the crotch. "Fuck, Mira. You're drenched."
"Since last night," she admits, then bites my lower lip hard. "When you said you'd bend me over the table in front of everyone."
She's been wet since the casino. Suffering like I've been suffering.
Through comms, Cole's voice cuts through. "Security patrol in forty seconds."
"Don't care." I grind my palm against her through the denim, and she arches in the driver's seat, her back pressing against the door.
"Thirty seconds."
Her hand finds my cock through my jeans, squeezing hard. I groan into her mouth, the sound mixing with her whimper as I work her through the wet fabric.
"Twenty—Jesus Christ, you need to drive. NOW."
The command in Cole's voice finally penetrates. We break apart, gasping. I'm twisted across the console, both of us wrecked. Her hands shake as she grips the steering wheel.
She throws the car into drive, and I collapse back into the passenger seat, three feet between us that feels like miles. My cock throbs painfully against my zipper, and I can see her pressing her thighs together as she drives.
Through the open comms, I can hear chatter about the security patrol approaching. Professional voices discussing perimeter checks while I sit here shaking with need.
"Alexei Petrov confirmed," she manages, attempting professional debriefing. "Viktor's running West Coast operations."
The safe house can't come fast enough. But when she finally pulls into the garage, we both know even that won't be enough. Not anymore.
Cole's voice through comms is terse. "Debrief in ten. Try to look professional."
I hurry around to Mira's side of the car, my hand finding her lower back as she stands. The simple touch makes us both tense. Her breath catches. My fingers tighten involuntarily.
"You need to see Remy," she says, stepping away from my touch. "Get those electrolytes. IV if necessary."
"Mira—"
"Now. Before you pass out."
The safe house common room is too bright. Cole's already at the surveillance setup. Asher's reviewing footage. Remy emerges from his room, drawn by the sound of our return, and already has an IV setup in his hands.
"This is going to take at least an hour," Remy says, tapping the IV bag. "You're seriously dehydrated."
Forty minutes of debrief while saline drips into my arm. Under the table, her foot brushes my leg. Once. Twice. But when I look up, she's studying Cole's notes, face carefully neutral.
"Good work," Cole finally says. "Get some rest."
Remy checks the IV bag. "Twenty more minutes."
Everyone else disperses to their respective rooms. Mira rises without looking at me.
"Mira—"
She pauses at the doorway. "Get better, Jax. We'll talk tomorrow."
Her door closes down the hall. Lock clicking.
I sit in the common room, IV dripping, listening to the sound of that lock echoing through the my mind.