38. Mira
thirty-eight
Mira
" — fascinating how patterns emerge," Sasha says, sliding a thumb drive across the white tablecloth toward me.
Under the table, Jax's knee bounces against mine in that restless rhythm I've memorized. His hand finds my thigh, fingers drumming the same nervous pattern he taps on steering wheels when he's processing too much information too fast. The contact grounds us both.
Always moving. Always thinking three steps ahead but needing to touch something real to stay focused.
Sasha leans back in his chair with the satisfied posture of someone holding premium intelligence.
His shoulders are relaxed, hands open—classic tells of confidence mixed with genuine loyalty to whoever's paying him.
There's professional satisfaction in his expression too.
He enjoys being the messenger with game-changing news.
The ocean breeze carries salt and expensive cologne through Mastro's outdoor seating. Around us, Beverly Hills power players conduct their own deals over wagyu steaks, completely oblivious to the conversation that could reshape criminal networks across two continents.
When I shift to reach for the drive, muscle memory from last night floods back. The storage unit metal against my palms, Jax's hands gripping my hips, the way he reclaimed that space from grief—
Focus.
"My employer has been watching your team with... particular interest."
"Particular how?" Jax's voice stays level despite his bouncing leg increasing tempo.
Sasha's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Let's say your recent activities have created... opportunities."
Opportunities. In our line of work, that word usually means someone powerful is dead, missing, or about to be both.
The drive sits between us like a landmine. Whatever's on there will pull us deeper into something bigger than trafficking networks or even Alexei's web of corruption. I can read it in Sasha's posture, the way he keeps checking sight lines to the restaurant entrance.
Jax's fingers still against my thigh. His tells have shifted from nervous energy to predatory focus. That transformation from scattered golden retriever energy to laser precision happens when stakes get high enough to cut through his usual scattered attention.
"The information on this drive will reshape your understanding of recent events."
Sasha lifts his wine glass, studying the burgundy liquid as if it contains answers. "Some ghosts prefer to remain buried, others are merely... displaced."
Jax's breathing changes beside me—that shift from restless energy to coiled alertness. His natural charm and easy confidence can flip to laser-focused intensity when he senses danger. Right now, every muscle in his body is primed for action.
"Meaning what, exactly?" I keep my voice neutral while my fingers trace patterns on his thigh. He needs the tactile connection to process information, and I need him thinking clearly.
"Interesting how grief makes us see what we expect to find." Sasha sets down his glass with deliberate care. "When identification becomes... assumption rather than confirmation."
Jax's hand tightens over mine. His knuckles go white against my skin.
He's starting to understand.
The waiter approaches our table, but Sasha waves him away with a subtle gesture. Around us, conversations continue about market trends and vacation properties. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that the foundations of their world shift with every word spoken at our table.
"My employer appreciates your team's... resilience." Sasha's accent thickens slightly—a tell that means he's approaching something important. "The way you've handled recent losses demonstrates remarkable adaptability."
I lean forward, closing the distance between us. "Cut the riddles, Sasha. What are you really saying?"
"Certain sacrifices serve multiple purposes. Protection, misdirection, evolution." He glances toward the restaurant entrance again, then back to us. "Sometimes the dead serve the living better than they ever could while breathing."
Jax pushes back from the table, his chair scraping against the stone patio. That restless energy is building toward explosion. "You're talking about—"
I squeeze his hand hard enough to bruise. Not here. Not now.
"You're dancing around something," I interrupt. "Either speak plainly or we walk."
Sasha's smile becomes genuine for the first time tonight. "I'm providing context, milaya . The details are on the drive. But I thought you deserved... preparation."
He stands, smoothing his jacket with practiced ease. "My employer understands the value of family. Sometimes preserving it requires... creative solutions."
The drive sits abandoned on white linen as Sasha disappears into the crowd of Beverly Hills elite. Jax stares at it like it might detonate.
My fingers hover over the drive before I snatch it. The metal casing feels heavier than it should—military grade, expensive. Someone with serious resources created this.
"What guarantees do we have this isn't manipulation?"
Sasha laughs, the sound carrying genuine amusement. "Guarantees? In our business?" He tilts his head. "You'll know the authenticity when you see it."
The drive slides into my jacket pocket like a weapon finding its holster. Whatever's on here will change everything. I can feel it in the weight, see it in Sasha's satisfied expression.
Information as currency. The most dangerous kind.
Beside me, Jax vibrates with barely controlled energy. He's always been the type to need immediate answers, to process everything out loud through movement and questions. Right now, his need to know is practically crackling off his skin.
"Your questions will find answers," Sasha continues, straightening his cufflinks with deliberate care. "Though they may not be the answers you want."
Jax's leg bounces faster. "Is he—"
I dig my fingers into his thigh hard enough to leave marks. Not here. Not now. Not with Sasha watching our every reaction.
The pressure works. Jax's mouth snaps shut, but his hand covers mine with desperate intensity. He needs the contact to think clearly, and I need him thinking clearly.
Sasha's smile spreads as he watches our interaction. That look of professional satisfaction mixed with something almost paternal. "Everything you need is there. Proof, patterns, and... possibilities."
He steps away from the table, moving with the fluid confidence of someone who's delivered exactly what he came to deliver.
"My employer prefers to demonstrate value through action, not promises." His accent thickens with sincerity. "This is our demonstration."
The drive burns against my ribs like a promise. Or a threat.
I stand, my movement triggering Jax's immediate response.
He rises with me, that perfect synchronization we've developed through violence and intimacy.
His energy shifts from restless anxiety to predatory alertness—the same transformation I've seen when he spots danger through a scope or feels protective instincts kick in.
"Your employer should know we protect our own. Violently."
My fingers trace along Jax's forearm where his muscles coil beneath his shirt. The touch looks casual, lovers sharing space, but it's tactical. Grounding him while displaying our unity.
Sasha's eyes track the movement with professional appreciation. "My employer counts on it. Why else provide this intelligence?"
Jax steps closer to me, his hand finding the small of my back. The contact sends warmth through my jacket, but more importantly, it positions us as a unified front. Two weapons pointed in the same direction.
He's learning to use our connection as strategy instead of vulnerability.
"You've changed, little star. This partnership suits you," Sasha continues, his tone carrying genuine respect mixed with calculated caution.
I tilt my head, letting my voice drop to that register that makes smart people reconsider their choices. "If this is a trap—"
"If this were a trap, you'd already be dead." Sasha's confidence doesn't waver, but his stance shifts slightly. Ready to move if necessary. "My employer values efficiency. Direct confrontation would be wasteful."
Jax's thumb brushes across my spine—a tiny movement that speaks volumes about trust and possession. His natural warmth and loyalty have evolved into something sharper. More dangerous.
"Trust but verify," he says, his usual rapid-fire speech replaced by controlled precision.
Sasha nods, already moving toward the restaurant entrance. "Verification is on the drive. Along with... other considerations your team should discuss privately."
The evening air carries salt and threat as Sasha disappears into Beverly Hills traffic, leaving us with information that could reshape everything we thought we knew about recent events.
The valet brings our car around while my fingers drum against the drive in my jacket. Jax moves like someone desperate for answers but trained to wait. His energy radiates outward—restless, loyal, protective—all the traits that make him simultaneously charming and dangerous.
"We analyze this now." His voice carries that edge I've learned means his protective instincts are overriding everything else. "I can't—I need to know."
The desperation in his tone cuts deeper than expected.
I slide into the passenger seat, already pulling out my phone. "Vanessa. Are you available for emergency decryption?"
"Always. What've you got?"
Jax peels out of the restaurant parking lot with more aggression than necessary. His hands grip the steering wheel like he's trying to strangle answers from it.
"Military-grade encryption. High priority intelligence from a source."
"Can you send it over secure channels?"
"That's what I'm asking. How secure are we talking?"
Vanessa's pause tells me everything. "This level requires our hardened systems. No remote access. You need to come here."
Jax's knuckles go white against the leather. "How long?"
"Private airfield. One hour flight." I end the call and reach across the center console to touch his forearm. His muscles relax fractionally under my fingers.
He needs the contact to think clearly. Amazing how someone so capable of violence can crave such simple comfort.
"Santa Monica Airport," I tell him.
He changes lanes with surgical precision, his usual scattered energy focusing into laser intensity. "What if it's—what if he's been—"
"Whatever's on here, we handle it." I keep my hand on his arm, feeling his pulse steady under my touch. "No matter what we find."
The city blurs past us as Jax navigates through traffic with the same skill he uses for everything else—complete commitment, instinctive precision. His loyalty runs bone-deep, the kind that makes him dangerous to enemies and invaluable to anyone he claims as his.
Last night in that storage unit, watching him break down completely before finding strength I didn't know he possessed. He's mine now in ways I'm still discovering.
"Sixty-three minutes," I murmur, watching the airfield approach. "Then we know everything."
Whatever's on this drive, whatever truth Sasha's employer wants us to discover, we're walking into it as a unified force. The drive burns against my ribs like a promise of revelation.
***
Two hours later, San Francisco HQ.
Vanessa's fingers fly over her secured terminal while I pace behind her chair. Mira tracks my movement from her position by the door, her presence the only thing keeping me from completely spiraling.
"Military-grade encryption," Vanessa mutters. "Whoever made this is professional."
The war room door opens—Kade entering with Cole, both looking tense. They got the alert during our flight. Whatever's on this drive is big enough that everyone cleared their schedules.
[Continue with decryption...]
The team fills Vanessa's secured workspace like wolves sensing blood. Cole circles the room, checking exits. Asher positions himself near the door. Kade remains standing behind Vanessa's chair, ready to see everything first.
Jax moves like a caged animal, all restless energy and barely contained need for answers. He keeps reaching for me, then pulling back, then reaching again. I catch his hand on the third attempt.
"Obi Wan's running the decryption algorithms now," Vanessa murmurs, her fingers dancing across multiple keyboards. "Military-grade stuff. Whoever encrypted this knows their business."
The screens fill with cascading code. Everyone's breathing seems too loud in the small space.
"How long?" My voice carries that edge of desperation I get when forced to wait for critical information.
"Fifteen minutes, maybe—" Vanessa stops mid-sentence. Her face drains of color as a single folder materializes on Obi Wan's display. "Holy shit."
INSURANCE_POLICY_SS7.
Multiple subfolders appear with timestamps from the last six months. My stomach drops as I recognize the dates.
"Get everyone in here NOW." Vanessa's voice cracks.
Jax's hand tightens around mine. "What is it?"
Vanessa turns in her chair, eyes wide with something between shock and terror. "There's... footage. Video files. Recent dates. You all need to see this."