31. Mira #2
"FUCK!" Xander's good hand slams the table. "You said on three!"
"I lied." Remy smiles sweetly while applying a better sling. "Now, Baltimore logistics while everyone bleeds attractively."
Cole pulls up warehouse schematics on the main screen, moving stiffly from his own injuries. "Three potential sites. We need simultaneous surveillance."
"Can't." Asher adjusts his position, favoring bruised ribs. "We're down three operators and half of us are held together with stitches and spite."
"Prague team lands in two hours," Cole continues, ice pack pressed to his eye while typing. "That gives us nine functional operators."
"Define functional," Xander gestures at his sling and Damian's blood-soaked bandages.
"Breathing and armed," Damian deadpans while testing his range of motion. Blood immediately seeps through the fresh shirt.
"Christ, sit down before you bleed out," Remy forces him back into the chair. "Some of us prefer our teammates alive."
I shift on Jax's lap to reach more ammunition, and his breath catches. His hands grip my hips, holding me still. "Stop moving like that unless you want me to embarrass myself in front of everyone."
"Your boy's breaking," Xander observes while struggling to load magazines one-handed. "More than usual, I mean."
"Statistically, teams operating with injuries have thirty-seven percent higher casualty rates," Jax starts rambling against my neck. "Add emotional compromise from recent losses and we're looking at—"
My hand covers his mouth. "No statistics. Just trust me."
He bites my palm—not hard, just enough to make heat pool in my stomach. "Always. But I'm still triple-checking your gear."
"Control freak," I mutter, but lean back into his chest while watching the team coordinate despite injuries.
"Focus," Cole interrupts, pulling up financial records with one hand while holding ice to his face. "Petrov's expecting Mira alone. We use that."
"Bait," I state the obvious while Jax's whole body goes rigid beneath me.
"No." His voice drops to that dangerous register. "Absolutely fucking not."
"It's the logical approach—"
"I don't give a fuck about logic." His hands shake as they grip me tighter. "You're not walking into a trap alone."
Asher looks up from his scope, blood still dripping from his nose. "She wouldn't be alone. I'd have overwatch."
"With a concussion and blood in your eyes?" Jax's getting frantic, his breathing changing.
"I've shot in worse conditions," Asher says mildly.
"That's not reassuring!"
Damian tests his shoulder mobility, fresh blood staining through. A low growl escapes when the movement pulls his stitches. "Mira makes contact. We position for immediate intervention."
"Define immediate," Jax demands, his rambling picking up speed. "Because average response for twelve Spetsnaz is—fuck, it's between 4.7 and 6.2 seconds depending on positioning and—"
I spin on his lap, straddling him properly. My hands frame his face, forcing eye contact. "Jax. Look at me."
His eyes are wild, calculating every possible way this goes wrong. "The statistics—"
"Fuck the statistics." My thumb traces his jaw. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes, but—"
"Do you trust them?" I gesture at our battered but determined team.
His gaze tracks over them—all injured, all still working, all committed to this insane mission. "Yeah."
"Then trust us to bring me home."
He kisses me hard, desperate and possessive. Someone throws an empty magazine at us, but neither of us care.
"Get a fucking room!" Xander complains, lobbing an empty magazine at us one-handed. "Or don't, but at least wait until we're not actively bleeding and plotting murder!"
"Bleeding and plotting is basically Tuesday," Remy observes with his diplomat's smile while forcing Asher to hold still. "Though usually with less sexual tension."
The banter continues as everyone works through pain, loading weapons and coordinating logistics. My family. Broken and bloody and mine.
"Equipment check in twenty," Cole announces, standing with visible effort. "Medical eval first. Nobody deploys bleeding out."
"Spoilsport," Damian mutters but allows Remy to check his stitches again.
Jax helps me stand, hands immediately going to my vest to check every strap and plate. "Extra armor here, here, and here."
"I'm not even injured."
"Yet," he says darkly, then catches himself. "Sorry. That was—"
"Honest." My hand covers his where it tests the trauma plates. "And sweet, in a deeply disturbed way."
"Your deeply disturbed way," he corrects, that crooked smile appearing despite everything.
"Mine," I agree.
"We end Petrov's network," I announce, and everyone stops to listen. "Not just him. All of it. For Thorne, Park, and Novak."
"For family," Asher corrects quietly.
Xander raises his good arm. "Who votes we make it fucking spectacular? Like, fourth-of-July-finale spectacular?"
Every hand goes up, even Cole's measured response.
"Motion carried," Damian growls softly. "Serbian technique?"
"After Baltimore," I promise. "When we have him."
Damian nods once, satisfied despite the blood loss.
Jax's hands are checking my weapons now, fingers testing weight and balance with obsessive focus. "These throwing knives are weighted wrong for close quarters."
"They're perfectly balanced."
"For standard deployment. But warehouse combat changes the physics—" He's fully rambling now, pulling out different blades while calculating trajectories.
My burner phone buzzes. Unknown number. A photo loads: surveillance footage of me entering this building tonight. Below it: "Hello, little swan. Baltimore is waiting. - A"