32. Jax
thirty-two
Jax
T he Gulfstream's engines hum steady as we cut through darkness toward Baltimore.
Two days since Gideon spilled his guts about Petrov's location.
Two days of recovery that wasn't nearly enough—Damian's shoulder still seeps blood if he moves wrong, Xander can barely grip shit with his fucked arm, and my ribs scream every time I breathe deep.
But Mira hasn't slept. I've watched her stand at windows, tracing patterns only she can see, building violence in her head like a composer writing a symphony.
Forty-three hours awake. I've been counting.
"Anyone else think walking into a known trap while half-dead is peak stupidity?" Xander shifts in his seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make him wince. "Because I'd like it on record that this is fucking idiotic."
"Optimal strategy." Damian doesn't look up from checking his weapon one-handed. "They expect us at full strength. Disappointment creates tactical advantage."
"They expect Mira alone," Cole corrects from across the aisle, his tablet showing thermal imaging of the harbor. "Team approach changes their calculations completely."
"Their calculations can fuck off, and I mean, seriously, who plans for thirteen years and doesn't—" The words tumble out in my usual cascade before I catch myself, fingers already drumming against my thigh. "Sorry. Nervous energy. Can't stop moving when we're this close to—"
"Stop apologizing." Mira's voice cuts through my rambling. She hasn't looked away from the window, but I can see her reflection watching me. "Your chaos is useful."
Heat crawls up my neck. Even now, heading into her personal nightmare, she sees through my fidgeting to something valuable underneath.
Asher cleans his rifle scope with mechanical precision, favoring his ribs without acknowledging the pain. "Prague team confirms eight operators in position. Katya says they've been there six hours already."
"Eight operators who don't ask questions," Remy adds from where he's organizing medical supplies. "Nightfall Syndicate's European division doesn't fuck around."
The plane banks slightly, beginning descent. Through the windows, Baltimore spreads below like a cancer—industrial decay and broken promises wrapped in fog.
"Container maze confirmed at harbor location." Cole's voice stays professionally neutral, but I catch the tension underneath. "Thermal imaging shows twenty-four guards. Plus Petrov."
Twenty-four. Against our broken team and eight Prague ghosts.
"There's cargo." Mira's words are ice. "Active shipments."
We all know what that means. Trafficking victims. Real people in those containers.
The moral weight settles over everyone differently—Cole's jaw tightens, Damian goes still, Xander mutters curses.
But Mira just keeps tracing those patterns on the glass.
"Thirteen years since that night." Her voice drops so low I almost miss it. "I can still smell her perfume. Chanel No. 5. She only wore it for special occasions."
My hand moves without permission, finding her thigh through tactical pants. Not trying to comfort—she's beyond that. Just letting her know she's not alone in this.
Though fuck, everything with her turns sexual eventually. Even comfort.
"That night was their anniversary. Twenty years." Her finger stops moving. "He bought her a new bottle every Christmas. Said family deserved beautiful things while planning to destroy us."
Sick fuck. Shopping for perfume with murder on his calendar.
"We're fifteen minutes out," the pilot announces.
Everyone starts final checks—weapons, comms, tactical gear. The sounds of professional preparation fill the cabin, but I can't stop watching Mira. She's completely still now, like a predator conserving energy before the strike.
"Promise me something." She turns from the window, those hazel eyes finding mine.
"Anything."
"If it goes bad—if he gets me—you don't try to save me. You end it. Quick and clean."
The request hits like ice water. Everyone else pretends not to hear, giving us this moment.
"I understand," I tell her.
"Promise me, Jax. I need to hear it."
"I promise," I lie, knowing I'd burn the entire harbor, probably most of Baltimore, before letting Petrov touch her again. "Quick and clean."
She studies my face, and I know she sees the lie. But she nods anyway, accepting the intention if not the truth.
"Touchdown in five," the pilot calls.
Game time.
The Fells Point warehouse reeks of rust and old blood—the kind of smell that tells you bad things happen here regularly. Prague team has taken over the main floor, their equipment spread across tables like they're prepping for war. Which they are.
Katya stands at the center, her silver hair pulled back tight, expression carved from Siberian winter. The lead operator beside her is built like a brick shithouse—Erik, according to his tag. The kind of guy who could bench press a car and not break a sweat.
"Situation unchanged since last report." Katya's accent turns the words into weapons. "Twenty-four guards on standard rotation. Petrov confirmed on site via thermal imaging."
She gestures to the screens showing heat signatures moving through the container maze. "Pattern suggests they expect confrontation. Multiple defensive positions established."
"He knows we're coming," I say, unable to keep still. My feet won't stop moving, that nervous energy spilling out. "Gideon warned him, or maybe he always knew, maybe this whole thing is—"
"Focus." Mira's voice cuts through my spiral. She's studying the thermal imaging with predator eyes, memorizing every detail. "He's been waiting thirteen years for this. Another few hours won't matter."
Prague team performs final checks with eerie synchronization. No wasted movement, no unnecessary communication. These aren't soldiers—they're surgical instruments.
"Cargo containers here, here, and here." Cole points to the display. "Thermal shows approximately fifteen to twenty individuals inside. Non-combatants."
Victims. Kids, probably.
"Extraction protocol?" Damian asks.
"Coast Guard standing by," Katya confirms. "Once area is secure, they handle victim recovery."
"Rules of engagement?" This from Asher, who's already mentally calculating shot angles.
"Petrov alive if possible. Everyone else is expendable." Katya's smile could freeze blood. "No witnesses except cargo."
The casual way she distinguishes between targets and victims tells me everything about Prague team's usual operations.
"Timeline?" Cole asks.
"We move in thirty minutes. Full dark, fog at maximum density." Erik speaks for the first time, his voice like grinding stone. "North team creates distraction. South team—that's you—springs the real trap."
"Their trap becomes ours," Xander grins despite his fucked arm. "I like it. Very philosophical."
Mira hasn't spoken during the entire briefing. She stands apart, already disappearing into that cold place where she keeps her violence. I want to touch her, ground her, remind her she's not alone, but this is her descent to make.
"Comms check," Cole says, handing out earpieces.
The next twenty minutes pass in preparation—weapons loaded, gear secured, final coordination confirmed. I check Mira's vest three times, using it as an excuse to stay close. She allows it, maybe understanding I need the contact more than she does.
My hands won't stop moving. Can't stop touching her vest, her weapons, making sure everything's perfect.
"Two minutes," Katya announces.
We move toward vehicles—two SUVs that look standard but probably have enough armor to stop anything short of a tank. Mira climbs in first, and I follow, unable to stop my hand from finding her lower back.
She turns, those eyes meeting mine in the dim light.
"Thank you," she says simply. "For not trying to talk me out of this."
"It's your demon to face. I'm just here to watch your six."
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe. Like she expected me to try to protect her from her own vengeance.
"Let's go," Cole says from the driver's seat.
Time to end thirteen years of nightmares.
The harbor fog is so thick it feels like driving through milk. Our headlights cut maybe ten feet before the world turns white. Perfect cover for Prague team, but also perfect for an ambush.
"Phoenix One in position," Katya's voice crackles through comms. "Thermal shows targets maintaining standard positions."
They're not even trying to hide. Through the bulletproof glass, I count guards standing under floodlights like they own the place. Cigarettes glowing, rifles casual across their chests. They're expecting us.
"Six approaching vehicles," one guard says into his radio—we're monitoring their frequency. "Female confirmed in second vehicle."
"Boss wants her alive," another voice responds. "The rest don't matter."
My hand twitches toward my weapon, but Mira places her fingers over mine. Not restraining, just reminding me to wait.
We exit the vehicles into fog that tastes like diesel and decay. The guards don't even raise their weapons, that casual arrogance that comes from thinking you hold all the cards.
"Boss said you'd come." The lead guard—skinny guy with prison tats crawling up his neck—looks only at Mira. "Just didn't think you'd bring an army to hide behind."
"I brought witnesses," Mira says, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes smart people nervous. "To watch what happens to men who destroy families."
The guard's smirk falters slightly, but he gestures toward the container maze. "This way. He's waiting."
We follow single file into the maze. The containers tower above us, rust-red and black, stacked like giant tombstones. Left turn, right, right again, another left. They're definitely herding us, using the maze to disorient. But Cole's been counting steps, memorizing the pattern.
Always the strategist. Thank fuck someone's brain still works while mine's spinning.