30. Mira
thirty
Mira
T he explosion's shockwave throws us against the Honda, debris raining down like metallic hail. Jax shields my body with his, pressing us both low behind the motorcycle as concrete chunks bounce off the street around us.
"Move, move, move!" Cole's voice cuts through the ringing in my ears over comms. "LAPD response time, three minutes."
Jax pulls me upright, his hands running over me with—fuck, they're shaking. Not the clinical precision I've seen him use on engine diagnostics. These are the hands of a man who just rode a motorcycle for the first time in thirteen years.
"Can you ride?" His voice cracks on the last word.
The question shouldn't surprise me, but it does. Not because he's asking—because of how he's asking. Like he's still processing what he just did. Like his brain hasn't caught up to his body yet.
"I'm fine." I swing onto the bike behind him, and his whole frame trembles when the engine starts. "We need distance."
"Right. Distance. I can do distance. I just—holy shit, I'm on a bike. With you. After—" His rambling cuts off as he pulls into traffic, but I can feel his heartbeat hammering against my chest. "Did you see that turn back there? The one where I almost—but I didn't, and Tommy would've—"
"Jax." I press closer, letting him feel me solid against his back. "Breathe."
"Breathing. Yeah. Good plan." But his voice is manic with triumph and terror. "Blade, we're—fuck, what's the—" He clears his throat, forcing tactical speak. "Blade, we're mobile. Package secure."
Cole's dry response crackles through comms: "Copy. Try not to have a complete breakdown until you reach the warehouse."
The abandoned warehouse Cole directs us to smells like rust and old motor oil. Jax kills the engine but doesn't dismount—just sits there vibrating with leftover adrenaline.
"I did it," he says, voice full of disbelief. "I actually fucking did it."
Before I can respond, he's off the bike and spinning me around, hands running over my body—not medical assessment, something more desperate. Possessive. His palms map my ribs, my arms, my throat, like he's memorizing I'm real.
"You're okay?" The words come out rough. "The explosion—you're not hurt anywhere I can't see?"
"I'm fine—"
"Don't." His hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones with reverent hunger. "Don't be fine. Be real. Be here. Be—"
I grab his shirt and yank him down, crushing our mouths together. This isn't comfort. This is claim. Verification. My tongue sweeps into his mouth while my hands tear at his jacket, needing skin, needing proof he's whole.
He backs me against the brick wall hard enough to knock breath from my lungs. "Mira—fuck—I need—"
"I know." My fingers find the tears in his shirt, trace the bruises forming underneath. "I know, just—"
His mouth drops to my throat, teeth scraping over my pulse point, and the sound I make is absolutely not professional. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hips, tangling in my hair—like he can't decide where to touch first.
"Jesus Christ, could you two not?" Cole's voice cuts through the haze. "We have maybe ten minutes before—"
"Shut up," Jax growls against my neck, and the authority in it makes heat pool low in my belly. "Just—one second—"
"You're bleeding," I manage, though my hands are pulling him closer instead of checking injuries.
"Don't care." His mouth finds mine again, desperate and claiming. "Rode a fucking motorcycle. Through an explosion. For you. I get this."
Footsteps. Multiple sets. Cole and Remy, but Jax doesn't pull away—just presses me harder against the wall, body caging mine possessively.
"Seriously?" Remy's voice carries amusement despite everything. "Now?"
"They're in shock," Cole observes clinically. "Adrenaline response. Verification of survival through physical—"
"We can hear you," I gasp, but Jax is doing something with his tongue that shorts out higher reasoning.
"Don't care," Jax repeats, hands gripping my thighs like he's considering lifting me up right here.
"Morrison, Santos, and Kim didn't make it."
That stops us. The names hit like ice water. Jax pulls back just enough to breathe, but keeps me trapped against the wall, his body a shield between me and everything else.
"They knew the risks," Remy says quietly, moving closer. "They saved the rest of Lange's team when those SUVs showed up."
The tremor that runs through Jax has nothing to do with motorcycles now. His forehead drops to mine, and for a moment we just breathe together, processing the loss.
"Gideon?" The name comes out of him like broken glass.
"Secured at the LA facility," Cole reports, tone shifting to pure business. "Interrogation suite prepped."
Gideon. Not just providing cover anymore—he's running the entire west coast operation. The muscle in Jax's jaw ticks dangerously.
"He trained me," Jax's voice drops to something I've rarely heard from him. "Taught me everything about trust and precision and—" His hand tightens on my hip. "And he's been coordinating trafficking operations this whole time."
"Not just coordinating," I need him to understand the scope. "He's C2 for the entire western network. Every girl who disappeared, every shipping container—he orchestrated all of it."
The sound Jax makes is inhuman. Before I can react, he's moving—slamming his fist into the brick wall with enough force to split knuckles.
"Jax!" I grab his arm before he can do it again.
"He was at Tommy's funeral!" The words tear out of him. "He held me while I sobbed about killing my best friend, and the whole time he was—"
"Breathe." I turn him to face me, hands framing his face. "Look at me."
His eyes are wild, unfocused. "I can't—Mira, I can't—"
"Yes, you can." I press our foreheads together again, giving him a focal point. "You just rode a motorcycle through an explosion. You can handle this."
"That was different." His hands find my waist, gripping like I'm the only solid thing in his world. "That was for you. This is—"
"This is for them," Cole interrupts, his tone sharp enough to cut through Jax's spiral. "Morrison, Santos, Kim. The hundreds of girls in those containers. You want to fall apart? Do it after we get answers."
Something shifts in Jax's posture. The manic energy doesn't disappear, but it crystallizes into something harder. Focused rage instead of scattered panic.
"Operational timeline?" His voice only shakes a little.
"Twenty minutes to clean up and regroup," Remy provides. "Medical for that hand, then interrogation."
"I don't need—"
"You need functional hands," I cut him off, already cataloging his injuries. "Let them treat you."
He looks at me for a long moment, and something passes between us. An understanding that we're about to walk into his worst nightmare—confronting the man who shaped him, then betrayed everything.
"Together?" The question is barely a whisper.
"Together."
Cole clears his throat. "If you two are done having a moment, we have a pedophile trafficking coordinator to break."
The casual brutality of the statement snaps us back to reality. This isn't about Jax's trauma or our relationship. This is about justice for the dead and freedom for the living.
"Blade's right," I release Jax reluctantly. "We need to be focused."
But Jax catches my hand before I can create distance. "No."
"No?"
"No more pretending." His eyes burn into mine. "I just broke thirteen years of fear for you. We're past acting like this is just business."
Cole makes a sound that might be approval. Remy's expression suggests he's been waiting for this moment.
"Well," I say, surprising myself with honesty, "shit."
Jax's laugh is still shaky but real. "That's my line."
"Your rambling is contagious."
"Good. Someone should scramble your perfect control the way you scramble my—everything."
"Get a room," Cole says flatly, but there's the tiniest curve to his mouth. "After the interrogation."
"Speaking of," Remy checks his tactical watch. "Eighteen minutes. Medical, brief, then we find out exactly how deep this betrayal goes."
As we move toward the medical station, Jax's hand finds mine again. His fingers still tremble against my palm, but there's strength there too. The kind that comes from facing your worst fear and surviving.
"Hey," he says quietly while Remy treats his knuckles. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not letting me fall apart. For being my anchor when everything went sideways. For—" He stops, searching for words. "For making me brave enough to get on that bike."
The confession hits somewhere deep. Somewhere I thought Mikhail had killed years ago.
"You made yourself brave," I correct, but my voice betrays me with softness.
"No." His certainty surprises me. "I was brave because losing you scared me more than any motorcycle ever could."
Damn him. Damn him for making me feel things when I need to be sharp.
"Save the poetry for after we break Gideon," I manage, but I squeeze his hand.
His grin flashes—still nervous energy, still slightly manic, but underneath is something new. Something dangerous and protective and mine.
"Deal. But after?" His voice drops low enough that only I can hear. "After, I'm going to show you exactly what conquering that fear means. What you mean."
Heat floods through me despite exhaustion, despite grief for our fallen team, despite everything.
"Promises, promises," I breathe.
"Facts." He stands as Remy finishes bandaging his hand. "I rode through hell for you today. Gideon's just the next demon to face."
The warehouse suddenly feels too small for what's building between us. Cole's knowing look suggests he sees it too.
"Five minutes to interrogation," he announces. "Whatever this is"—he gestures between us—"channel it into breaking Gideon. We need him to give us everything."
Jax's expression hardens with purpose. The trembling stops. In its place stands someone I'm only beginning to know—the operator Roman saw potential in, just with all his walls torn down.
"He'll talk," Jax says with quiet certainty. "He owes me that much truth after thirteen years of lies."
I study this new version of him—dangerous and vulnerable, competent and shattered, mine and his own.
This is what love looks like on him. It's devastating.
"Ready?" I ask.
"With you?" He offers his bandaged hand. "Always."
We walk toward interrogation, and I can feel Jax's energy shifting—the manic edge crystallizing into something deadly.
Cole opens the door, revealing Gideon zip-tied to a metal chair, blood trickling from his temple. When he sees Jax, his split lips curve into that same proud smile from thirteen years ago.
"There's my star student." His voice carries paternal warmth that makes bile rise in my throat. "Finally back on a bike. Tommy would be proud."
The name hits like a slap. Jax's whole body goes rigid, his bandaged hand clenching into a fist.
"Careful," Gideon continues, eyes shifting to me with interest. "That one's killed more men than you've had hot dinners. But you already know that, don't you?" He leans forward as much as the restraints allow, studying my face. "The question is—does she know what you're really capable of?"
"Shut up," Jax says quietly. Too quietly.
"Make me." Gideon's smile turns predatory. "Show her who you really are under all that nervous rambling. Show her what Tommy's death actually created."
The way Jax moves is so fast I barely track it—his fist connecting with Gideon's jaw with a crack that echoes off concrete walls.
"That's one," Jax says, voice calm as death. "You've got about twenty-two more coming. One for each container of girls you helped traffic. Unless you start talking."