27. Jax
twenty-seven
Jax
" J ax! There you are! So glad you can make it."
Gideon's arms wrap around me before I can react, that familiar bear hug that used to make me feel like I belonged somewhere. Now the scent of leather and his cologne—that same goddamn cologne he's worn since I was sixteen—makes my stomach twist with something I can't name yet.
He's exactly the same. That proud smile, calling me 'kid' like nothing's changed. How can the man who taught me about honor be involved in this?
"Good to see you too, Gideon." The words taste like ash, but my voice stays steady. Professional. Mira is listening through the comm, and that steadies something inside me.
"Come on, let me show you what we've been building here." He gestures toward the trophy cases lining the main corridor, same proud father expression I remember. "Remember when you and Tommy took first and second at Saddleback? That double-jump section where you both went airborne?"
My chest tightens. Tommy's name always hits like a sucker punch, but hearing it here, in this place that's supposed to be about training kids to race—
"Sweet boy, maintain focus. I can see elevated heart rate from here."
Mira's voice through the earpiece makes my pulse spike for entirely different reasons. The way she says 'sweet boy' like a promise and a threat rolled together. My fingers tap nervous rhythms against my phone in my pocket.
"Yeah, I remember." I force a grin. "Feels like yesterday."
"That's what I love about you, kid. Always sentimental." Gideon claps my shoulder, leading me deeper into the facility. "Let me show you the new training equipment. Some of our advanced programs require special logistics coordination."
The garage bay doors stand open, letting in waves of California heat that make sweat gather at my collar. The familiar sounds wash over me—engines revving from student practice sessions, the squeal of tires, instructors shouting corrections.
The smell of motor oil and burning rubber should comfort me, but something feels wrong. The acrid undertone of metal and human sweat doesn't belong in a racing academy.
"Logistics coordination?" I keep my voice casual, interested.
"Supply chain management. International partnerships." His tone shifts slightly, more businesslike. "You understand how expensive proper training equipment is. Sometimes we need creative funding solutions."
The metallic taste of adrenaline floods my mouth. Creative funding solutions.
"Target is leading you toward the shipping area. Thermal shows three additional signatures in receiving dock."
Mira's tactical update cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I force myself to nod at Gideon like he's making perfect sense.
"Makes sense. Racing's always been about finding sponsors."
"Exactly! You always were the smart one." That proud smile again, the one that used to make me stand taller. "The beauty is, our international partnerships provide training opportunities our students never imagined."
We're walking toward the back of the facility now, past the student areas toward the shipping docks. Each step feels heavier than the last.
"What kind of opportunities?"
"Well, that depends on their particular talents."
Fear tastes like copper pennies as his words hit me like ice water.
The doors to the shipping area open, and my world shifts completely.
Banks of monitors line the walls, each showing different racing circuits.
Phoenix International Raceway. Sonoma County.
Laguna Seca. Six different screens, six different academy locations, each with real-time data streams. Communication equipment that looks military-grade.
Charts tracking shipping schedules overlaid with racing event calendars.
"Holy shit."
The words slip out before I can stop them. This isn't just about Lynch Racing Academy. This is a command center.
"Language, kid." Gideon chuckles, but his eyes are sharp now. Watching my reaction. "Impressed? Took three years to build this coordination network."
Viktor Kazakov stands at the central console, speaking in rapid Russian through a headset. He glances at me, nods to Gideon, then turns back to his screens.
European supply chain operational. Next shipment arrives Thursday.
Viktor's accent is thick, but the meaning cuts through me like glass.
"Sweet boy, stay calm. I'm reading your vitals."
Mira's voice through the earpiece is steady, professional. But I hear the edge underneath.
I move closer to the displays, pretending casual interest while memorizing shipping codes. My fingers tap nervous rhythms against my thigh—evidence gathering under pressure.
"Racing academies in six states." Gideon follows my movement, pointing at different markers.
His hand hovers over each location like he's conducting an orchestra of crime.
"Each one a hub for specialized transportation during racing season.
Brilliant, really. Who questions buses moving kids to racing events? "
My legs feel unsteady. Every academy I trained at. Every mentor who praised my potential.
"I'm seeing communication equipment for international coordination. This isn't some operation that got out of hand—this is architecture."
Mira's assessment confirms what I'm witnessing. System design. Planning. Systematic destruction of everything that saved me after Tommy died.
"Viktor handles European supply." Gideon gestures toward wall charts showing shipping routes. "I manage American distribution through legitimate racing infrastructure."
The racing schedules. The container timing. The way events perfectly align with transport windows.
Viktor pulls up data on the central screen. Names. Ages. Skill assessments.
Not just transportation. Selection.
"Sweet boy, breathe. I need you functional."
Mira's voice cuts through the rushing sound in my ears. Right. I'm here for evidence. For the mission.
Container codes burn into my memory: TCX-7749, KLM-8832, PLK-9901. Shipping dates aligned with racing calendars. Radio frequencies for international coordination. Names and faces on victim assessment screens.
Every detail is evidence that could save lives.
Something flickers in Gideon's eyes as he watches me memorize the shipping schedules. Too much focus, too much professional interest.
Fuck. He's reading me.
His hand moves casually toward his desk drawer—not for a weapon. For the security alert system.
Gideon leads me into his private office, same wood-paneled space where he used to review our training footage.
Trophy cases line the walls—my trophies, Tommy's trophies, dozens of other kids who trusted him.
Racing photos cover every surface. Me at sixteen, grinning next to my first professional bike.
Tommy throwing his helmet in the air after winning sectionals.
All of it was a lie.
"Sit down, kid. We need to talk business."
I stay standing, studying the wall behind his desk. Racing calendars hang next to shipping manifests. Awards ceremonies scheduled alongside cargo transport windows. The integration is seamless, professional.
"Three years of careful planning." He settles into his chair, gestures at the photos surrounding us. "Every successful program requires proper foundation work."
The photo of Tommy and me after our double victory at Saddleback sits on his desk, right next to financial documents. Shipping codes. Names.
"Foundation work?"
"You think I taught you and Tommy about honor and protection?" He leans back, that familiar proud smile twisting into something ugly. "I taught you obedience. How to follow orders without question. Perfect recruitment techniques."
Every lesson. Every moment he made me feel worthy. Every time I tried to make him proud.
"Tommy's accident taught me something important." His tone stays conversational, like discussing weather. "Some investments don't pay off. But the lessons learned help train better assets."
My hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets, force my breathing to stay even.
He's talking about Tommy like a failed business venture.
"Assets."
"Don't look so shocked, kid. Everyone has a price. Mine just happened to be high enough to make this worthwhile."
He opens a desk drawer, pulls out more photos. Kids from other academies. Training schedules mixed with psychological profiles. Age ranges. Skill assessments. Vulnerability ratings.
"Most people think trafficking is about grabbing random victims off the street. That's amateur hour. Real professionals identify talent early. Develop it. Shape it."
Shape it. Like he shaped me.
"The racing academies provide perfect cover. Parents pay us to train their kids. We assess which ones have the right combination of skill, desperation, and malleability."
My stomach lurches. The photos on his wall—how many of those smiling kids ended up as cargo?
"You were borderline, honestly. Good skills, but too stable.
Happy family, secure background." He picks up the photo of Tommy and me, turns it in his hands like examining merchandise.
"Then your friend died, your parents blamed you, and suddenly you were exactly what we needed.
Broken. Guilty. Desperate to prove yourself. "
I grip the back of the chair in front of me, knuckles white. Force myself to stay still when every instinct screams to grab that photo away from his manipulative hands.
Every text asking if I was okay. Every invitation to come train when I felt lost. Every time he told me I had potential.
"Sweet boy, I need you to respond to what he's saying. Maintain cover."
Mira's voice cuts through the rushing in my ears.
"So the accident—"
"Was an accident. But profitable." He sets the photo down carefully, his fingers drumming against the wooden surface—same rhythm he used when analyzing race footage.
Now he's analyzing me. "Your grief made you the perfect candidate for specialized work.
Willing to take impossible risks. Addicted to proving yourself.
Easy to control through guilt and validation. "