34. Jax
thirty-four
Jax
Where's your security detail?
The question sits in my throat like broken glass while I watch Mira check her Glock for the fourth time. Her movements are fluid, precise—every motion calculated for maximum efficiency. She slides the magazine out, counts rounds, slides it back with that soft click that makes my skin crawl.
She's in hunting mode. Last time she looked like this, eight men died in under three minutes.
My hands won't stay still. They tap against my thighs, drum against the concrete pillar, fidget with my keys until the metal cuts into my palm. Not anxiety—pure rage at the thought of her walking into a trap I can't control.
I should lock her in the loft. Chain her to the bed until this network burns itself out.
The fantasy flashes through my mind with stunning clarity. Mira, safe, furious, mine. No London courtroom. No testimony. No bullets with her name carved into them.
Holden leans against the sedan, watching us both with those calculating blue eyes. He's dressed in his standard businessman disguise—tailored suit, perfect posture, no visible weapons. But I know he's carrying at least three knives and a pistol that could put holes through concrete.
He looks relaxed. That's when Holden's most dangerous.
"Where's your security?" The words finally scrape out.
Holden straightens, adjusting his watch with deliberate care. "This is personal."
Mira holsters her weapon with a smooth motion that makes my mouth go dry. "It always was."
Personal means off the books. Personal means if she dies, there's no backup plan.
My foot starts bouncing against the floor, that restless energy building until I need to move or explode. I pace to the far pillar, back to where she stands checking her knife sheaths.
"Personal doesn't stop bullets."
"Neither does a security detail." Mira's voice carries that cold precision that means she's already three steps ahead of everyone in the room. "Alexei's network has infiltrated law enforcement before."
She's right. She's always fucking right. And I hate it.
Holden pulls out his phone, thumb scrolling through what looks like financial reports. Always working, even now. "The testimony happens in eighteen hours. After that, you're officially protected witness status."
"Eighteen hours." I stop pacing, let the number sink in. "Eighteen hours for them to put her down."
Eighteen hours to lose everything that matters.
Mira steps closer, close enough that I can smell that subtle vanilla scent she wears. Close enough to see the way her pupils have dilated—not fear, excitement. She's looking forward to this.
She wants them to come. She wants the fight.
"You're enjoying this." The accusation slips out before I can stop it.
Her smile could cut diamonds. "They've been hunting me for seven years. Now I get to return the favor."
Christ. She's not walking into a trap. She's setting one.
I wait until Mira disappears behind the sedan, hunting through the tactical gear in the trunk. Her voice carries, muffled by distance, as she talks to someone on her earpiece—probably coordinating with the Prague team.
Perfect timing.
I corner Holden by the driver's side door, stepping close enough that he has to look up from his phone. My body blocks his escape route. Not threatening exactly, but not backing down either.
This conversation happens now, before I lose my nerve.
"I need papers for her. Real ones."
Holden's eyebrows lift, but his expression stays neutral. "What kind of papers?"
"Birth certificate, social security, passport. The works." My voice drops low, steady. No room for negotiation. "Miranda Knight needs to exist on paper, not just in some government database."
Not asking permission. Claiming her future.
He slides his phone into his jacket pocket, giving me his full attention. "That's a federal crime, Jax. Identity fraud carries serious time."
"So does human trafficking, but that didn't stop us from burning down Alexei's network." [this analogy makes no sense]
Holden studies my face, those calculating eyes taking in details I probably don't even know I'm showing. My clenched jaw. The way I'm standing too close. The fact that I haven't moved from blocking his path.
He's reading me like a tactical manual. Good. Let him see exactly how serious this is.
"Already done."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My chest expands, air flooding my lungs for the first time in hours.
"What?"
"Miranda Knight exists. Born in Portland, Oregon.
Parents died in a car accident when she was twenty-two.
No living relatives." He pulls out a manila envelope from inside his jacket.
"Driver's license, passport, even a credit history.
She's been freelance consulting in art authentication for the past seven years. "
I take the envelope, feeling the weight of official documents through the paper. Real papers. A real life.
She can disappear into this identity if everything goes wrong. Start over.
"Social security number?"
"Active since her eighteenth birthday. She's even paid taxes."
My hands shake slightly as I hold her new existence. Not tremors—adrenaline. Pure protective instinct finally having somewhere to go.
She doesn't have to be Miroslava Sokolov anymore. The girl who watched her parents die can stay buried.
"Good." I meet his eyes directly, letting him see everything I'm feeling. The possessiveness. The desperation. The absolute certainty that I'll burn the world down before I let anything happen to her. "Now she has something to lose."
Holden nods slowly. "You're not asking for permission."
"No." I slide the envelope inside my jacket, feeling it settle against my ribs like armor. "I'm telling you how it's going to be."
The trunk slams shut behind us, and Mira's footsteps approach on the concrete.
"Jax—"
Her voice carries that note of warning that means I'm about to cross one of her lines. Too bad. I'm done respecting boundaries when it comes to keeping her breathing.
I step forward, backing her against the sedan's warm metal. My hand finds the base of her skull, fingers threading through those dark strands that always smell like vanilla and danger.
She's mine. Petrov just doesn't know he's already dead.
"You have forty-eight hours before I come for you."
Her eyes flash with something between irritation and heat. She pushes against my chest, but not hard enough to actually move me. Testing my resolve maybe, or just reminding me she could put me on the ground if she wanted.
"Jax—"
"Forty-eight hours, Mira. Then I burn down London to find you."
The words come out rougher than I intended. Raw. Desperate. But I need her to understand that this isn't some dramatic gesture. This is a promise carved in stone.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, nails scraping against the fabric. "You can't just—"
"Watch me."
My thumb traces along her jawline, feeling the rapid pulse at her throat. She's not afraid. She's turned on. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, making my voice drop to something barely human.
"I've lost everyone who mattered. Tommy. Roman. I won't lose you too."
Her breathing changes, becomes shallow and quick. Those hazel eyes study my face like she's memorizing every detail.
Good. Remember this moment when you're sitting in some sterile safe house thinking about running.
"This isn't your fight anymore," she whispers.
"Wrong. You became my fight the moment you let me touch you."
I lean closer, my forehead resting against hers. The space between us crackles with everything we can't say. Everything that might not get said if she doesn't make it through the next two days.
"Forty-eight hours."
She nods once, sharp and quick. Then she's gone, sliding out from between my body and the car like smoke. Her movements are fluid, controlled, but I catch the way her hands tremble as she adjusts her jacket.
She feels it too. This pull between us that's bigger than logic or training.
I watch her walk toward Holden's car, memorizing the way she moves. The confident stride. The way she checks her surroundings without seeming paranoid. Every detail burns itself into my brain because I need to remember her exactly like this.
The car door closes. Engine starts. Taillights disappear around the corner.
My phone is in my hands before I even register the decision. Cole answers on the first ring.
"Track her phone. Now."
"Already on it."
Of course he is. Best team in the business.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number, but I recognize the pattern.
"London coverage arranged. She won't be alone. - S.K."
I don't know if that's reassurance or a threat. With Sasha, it's probably both.