35. Mira
thirty-five
Mira
T hree texts from Jax. Three.
I stare at my phone screen, black tactical pants half-zipped, morning light filtering through heavy London curtains. The messages came in through the night while I pretended to sleep.
2:14 AM: "Still tracking you. Signal's strong."
3:47 AM: "Remind me to show you that Italian place when you get back."
6:23 AM: "Twenty-four hours."
The countdown. Of course he's counting down.
When you get back. Not if. When.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I say to someone who's already planning dinner reservations while I'm about to decide if a man lives or dies?
Someone who notices if I don't come back.
The thought hits different this morning. For thirteen years, I've lived in hotels and safe houses. Temporary spaces with temporary identities. Places to exist, not live. But there's a loft in SOMA now with my toothbrush next to his. Coffee cups that match. A bed that smells like both of us.
"Home," I whisper to the empty room.
The word tastes foreign. Dangerous. Like something I'm not allowed to want.
I zip the pants and reach for the black sweater. Tactical fabric that passes for civilian wear. The kind of outfit that moves with you when everything goes wrong.
My reflection stares back from the bathroom mirror. Same face. Same calculating eyes. But something's shifted behind them. There's weight there now. Responsibility.
He's waiting for me.
The realization should terrify me. Should make me want to run the moment this is over. Disappear into Miranda Knight's clean history and start over somewhere Jax Ryder can never find me.
Instead, I type back: "Forty-six hours. Don't do anything stupid."
Three dots appear immediately. He's awake. Probably hasn't slept. Probably touching himself thinking about me the way I did last night thinking about him.
"Define stupid."
Despite everything, I smile. That eager energy of his.
"You know what stupid looks like."
"Fine. I'll keep it to medium-risk stupidity only."
A knock interrupts us. Holden's voice carries through the adjoining door.
"Briefing time. Intel update."
I close the phone without responding to Jax's message. Let him wonder. Let him count down his forty-six hours while I decide whether Alexei Petrov lives or dies tomorrow.
The door handle turns cold under my palm. "Coming."
Holden's already in motion when I enter his room, pacing between the bed and window while tapping commands into his tablet.
"Transport intel came through." He doesn't look up from the screen. "Your friend Petrov's being moved tomorrow morning."
Friend. The word twists in my gut like a blade.
I settle into the chair by the desk, watching him work.
"Show me."
He turns the tablet toward me, fingers swiping across a detailed map of London. Red dots mark checkpoints along a route from Belmarsh Prison to Woolwich Crown Court.
"Standard prisoner transport for his extradition hearing. Multiple countries want him - Russia, Ukraine, the Americans. They're deciding who gets him first."
I study the route, memorizing distances and timing. Seven years of planning Alexei's death, and now someone's laying it out like a mission briefing.
"Here." Holden taps the screen at the courthouse. "Delivery bay has a six-minute window during the transfer. Light security."
The tactical part of my brain catalogs the information. Entry points. Escape routes. Clean shot angles.
"You're giving me a choice," I say.
Holden stops pacing. Opens the closet and pulls out a black rifle case - professional grade, already prepped. "The equipment's clean. Untraceable. Building across from the courthouse, seventeenth floor. Service door key is under the fire extinguisher."
He sets the case on the bed between us. An offering. A test.
"Tomorrow morning, 0800 hours," he continues. "Transport leaves Belmarsh at 0745. Arrives Woolwich at 0830."
"And if I don't take the shot?"
"Then he rots in whatever hole has the worst prisons. The Russians want him for the murders in Moscow. The Ukrainians for the trafficking routes. Neither will be gentle."
Seven years planning his death. Now it's being offered on a silver platter.
But Jax's voice echoes in my head: "Come back to me."
"Either way," Holden says quietly, "it ends tomorrow."
Dawn. London fog thick enough to taste.
The rifle case was exactly where Holden promised. Seventeenth floor, service access, key taped under the fire extinguisher. I'm set up now with perfect line of sight to the courthouse delivery bay below.
Through the scope, everything sharpens to crystal clarity. The transport van's exhaust creates small puffs in the morning air. Guards shift their weight, checking watches. Six-minute window, just like Holden said.
The van doors swing open.
First guard steps out. Second guard. Driver stays put, engine running.
Then Alexei.
Even through the scope, I recognize that calculated posture. The way he carries himself like he owns whatever space he occupies. Handcuffs don't diminish him—they're just another prop in his performance.
He looks older. Grayer. The scar through his left eyebrow catches morning light, a reminder of our last encounter when I was sixteen and desperate.
My finger settles against the trigger.
One squeeze. Everything ends.
Alexei moves between the guards with that same arrogant stride. No fear. He probably thinks his lawyers will find some loophole.
The crosshairs center on his chest. Heart shot. Clean.
But something stops me.
Not guilt. Not mercy.
Jax.
His countdown. His texts. The Italian restaurant he wants to show me. The way he says "when you get back" like my return is already written in stone.
Alexei reaches the courthouse entrance. Perfect moment. Stationary target.
Take the shot.
Instead, I watch through the scope as they escort him inside. Watch the heavy doors swing shut.
"Rot in prison, you bastard."
I pack up the rifle with mechanical precision. Seven years ago, I would have taken that shot without hesitation. But seven years ago, I had nothing to lose. No one waiting for me. No home.
Now I have someone to go back to. Someone worth more than revenge.
My phone buzzes. Text from Jax: "Forty-five hours, twelve minutes. Miss you."
I type back: "LAX. Tomorrow."