29. Jax
twenty-nine
Jax
This is where it all started. Where Gideon taught me precision, control, timing.
Where he taught me to trust him before he betrayed everything I believed in.
"Final equipment check." Kade's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Multiple entry points confirmed. Gideon's expecting us, but not the full scope."
I test my earpiece connection, muscle memory taking over while my brain tries to process that we're actually doing this. Going after the man who mentored me, who I looked up to like a father figure, who turned out to be running cover for human traffickers.
Mira moves beside me with that lethal grace that makes my heart rate spike. She points to the compound's exterior cameras without hesitation.
"Security cameras here and here. Blind spots at loading dock match the intel from my surveillance last week."
Cole nods approvingly. "Good. That confirms our entry strategy."
The easy acceptance in his voice makes something settle in my chest. Three weeks ago, they were questioning every word she said. Now she's family.
She chose us. Chose me.
"Frost, you in position?" Kade's voice comes through comms.
"Affirmative. Clear sightlines on main exits." Asher's response comes through crystal clear. "Motion sensors active on the perimeter, but Vanessa's got the feeds looped."
"Echo here," Vanessa's cheerful voice chirps in our ears. "Digital overwatch is fully online. I can see seventeen different exit routes from your position, plus three underground tunnels that aren't on any official blueprints."
The familiar banter between our team should calm my nerves, but my fingers keep drumming that engine rhythm. Faster now.
What if he's in there? What if I have to—
"Nitro." Mira's voice is quiet, meant only for me. "You're broadcasting anxiety in frequencies dogs can hear."
I force my hand to still against my vest. "I'm fine."
"You're loyal, protective, and your instinct is to trust first and question later." Her assessment is clinical but not unkind. "That's not weakness. It's what makes you good at reading people, at earning their trust."
Even when that trust gets betrayed.
"Reaper, Saint, Chaos, sound off," Kade commands.
"Reaper in position, southwest corner." Damian's gravelly voice barely registers above a whisper.
"Saint ready at medical staging." Remy's smooth tone carries his usual calm confidence.
"Chaos locked and loaded with party favors." Xander's enthusiasm makes me crack the first smile I've managed all morning.
Kade's tactical assessment cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Remember, Lynch Academy is command and control for the trafficking network. Gideon is coordinating the entire West Coast pipeline."
The man who taught me to drive, who celebrated when I landed my first sponsorship deal, who held me together after Tommy died.
"All units, move to breach positions." Kade's order snaps me back to the mission.
The breach goes smooth at first. Too smooth.
My boots hit the academy floor with the same weight they did fifteen years ago, but this time I'm carrying tactical gear instead of racing gloves. The familiar smell of motor oil and tire rubber fills my nostrils as we move through corridors I know by heart.
Every turn, every blind spot, every exit.
"Clear left," I whisper into my mic, checking the workshop where Gideon first taught me to read engine timing by sound alone.
"Kitchen secure," Cole reports. "Moving to administrative offices."
Mira's voice comes through steady and clinical. "Target located. Northwest classroom, lights on."
My chest tightens. The same room where Gideon showed me video breakdowns of professional races, where he talked about precision and control like they were sacred principles.
Where he probably planned trafficking routes while I thought we were discussing racing lines.
"I'm thirty seconds out," I report, moving toward the familiar classroom with my weapon ready.
Through the doorway, I see him. Gideon sits calmly at the same desk where he used to review my lap times, hands folded like he's waiting for a scheduled meeting instead of a tactical takedown.
"You really think taking me down stops anything?" His voice carries that same patient tone he used when correcting my racing mistakes. "This network runs deeper than one location, Jax."
"Shut up." The words come out harsher than I intended. "You're coordinating shipping routes for traffickers. That makes you—"
"Makes me what? A monster?" Gideon leans back in his chair, completely relaxed despite three laser sights painting his chest. "I coordinate logistics across state lines. Nothing more."
Mira moves into position behind me, her presence steadying my hands. "He's refusing to identify the organization structure."
"Because I'm not suicidal." Gideon's eyes shift to Mira with something that makes my trigger finger twitch. "Though I have to admire their efficiency in tracking you down."
Their efficiency? Tracking her?
"Multiple vehicles approaching," Asher's voice cuts through comms with sudden urgency. "Eight SUVs, tactical formation. This was a setup."
My blood turns to ice. "What do you mean setup?"
"They're not here for Gideon." Static fills the channel for a heartbeat before Asher continues. "They're here for her."
Gideon's smile spreads slow and satisfied. "I warned them you'd come. But she was always the real prize."
Mira's hand finds my shoulder, her touch burning through tactical fabric. "We need to move. Now."
"South exit compromised," Damian's growl comes through comms. "Heavy resistance."
"North exit blocked," Xander reports. "These guys came prepared."
Think. Every exit route. Every shortcut. Every hiding spot.
"How long have you been setting this up?" I ask Gideon, my voice coming out low and dangerous.
His laugh makes my skin crawl. "Since the moment you walked back into my world."
The sound of shattering glass cuts through our tactical chatter. Three smoke grenades roll through the classroom windows simultaneously, filling the air with thick gray clouds that burn my eyes and throat.
Professional. Coordinated. They've done this before.
"Ambush protocol!" I shout into my comms, but the words disappear into the chaos of automatic weapons fire erupting from multiple positions outside the building.
Through the smoke, I catch glimpses of black tactical gear moving with military coordination. These aren't street-level traffickers or desperate criminals. They move like special forces, like us.
Mira's voice cuts through the gunfire, steady and lethal. "Six tangos, northwest corridor. Moving in coordinated formation."
"Having fun yet, golden boy?" she calls out, dropping two targets with center mass shots.
"Ask me when we're not being shot at by your fan club," I snap back, tracking movement through the haze.
My weapon finds targets through the smoke, but before I can engage properly, something slams into my shoulder. Not a bullet—a flashbang. The explosion sends me reeling backward into the hallway, ears ringing like church bells.
Get up. Find Mira. Move.
I shake off the disorientation and push toward where I last saw her, but the smoke is too thick. My tactical training screams at me to fall back, regroup, establish communication with the team. But my chest feels like it's being crushed by a hydraulic press.
She's in here somewhere. Fighting them alone.
"Contact southeast!" Cole's words break through the radio interference. "They've got the main exits covered!"
Asher's clinical assessment follows immediately. "Sniper positions on adjacent buildings. This is a coordinated extraction, not a firefight."
Extraction. They're not here to kill us.
Through the clearing smoke, I see Mira pressed against the far wall, her weapon trained on three advancing figures in tactical gear. She drops two with center mass shots, but there are more behind her. Too many.
Four, maybe five men moving in sync, overwhelming her through sheer numbers rather than skill. One has something in his hand that isn't a weapon—taser maybe, or zip-tie restraints.
She spins toward the new threat, but hands grab her arms, her legs. Professional takedown, designed for capture not elimination.
No. Not happening.
I sprint toward the melee, but something massive slams into my ribs, sending me sprawling across the floor. When I roll over, gasping for air, Gideon stands above me with a satisfied smile and a tactical baton in his hands.
"She's worth more than you know," he says conversationally, like we're discussing racing statistics instead of watching the woman I love get dragged away by armed men. "Eastern European contacts pay premium for skilled assets with her particular background."
Assets. He's talking about her like she's cargo.
The rage that floods my system is so complete, so consuming, that for a moment I can't see anything except red. I lunge for him, but he sidesteps with the same casual grace he used to demonstrate proper cornering technique.
"You son of a bitch. You sold her out."
"I sold you all out," he says, dodging my wild swing. "But she was always the primary objective. The rest of you were just... collateral benefits."
Through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of Mira being carried toward a black SUV. She's conscious, fighting the restraints, her eyes burning with fury even as they load her into the vehicle.
Still fighting. Always fighting.
"They're moving her to secondary location," Asher's voice cuts through my earpiece. "We need immediate pursuit."
Kade's tactical assessment comes through clear and decisive. "Frost, Reaper, Chaos—secure the compound and our target. Saint, Blade—mobile support for Nitro."
I stumble toward the window, watching the SUV pull away like a military convoy. Two more vehicles flank it as escorts.
"All primary vehicles compromised," Cole reports. "They took out our transportation first."
Think. There has to be something. Some way to follow them.