Chapter 10 Jackson
TEN
Jackson
DIGITAL HUNT
Talia’s hand trembles in mine, that faint vibration running up my arm like live current. The darkness makes every detail louder—her quick, shallow breaths, the rapid drum of her pulse against my palm, the subtle vanilla warmth of her skin threaded with the clean bite of my soap.
I shouldn’t notice this. Shouldn’t register the way her fingers curl instinctively into mine like they belong there. Shouldn’t remember waking with her ass pressed against me, my hand on her bare stomach, her body fitting against mine like we were made for it.
Focus, asshole.
This morning, we were spooning in bed. Now Phoenix is here to put bullets in her head. The whiplash from intimacy to violence should be familiar—it’s how my life works, but something about her makes the transition harder. Makes me want things I can’t afford.
“Stairs.” My voice barely disturbs the air. “Stay close.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. No questions. No statistical analysis. Just trust.
That trust does something uncomfortable in my chest.
I navigate by memory and instinct. Twelve steps to the apartment door. Seventeen to the stairwell. The building’s layout burned into my brain within minutes of arrival—a habit that’s saved my life more than once.
The stairwell door hinges are on the left and open inward. I ease it open millimeter by millimeter, listening. No footsteps. No breathing except ours. But Phoenix operatives know how to move in silence.
“Step when I step.” My lips graze her ear, breath stirring loose strands of her hair. She shivers—not from cold.
We slip through, boots soft on worn carpet. Every shadow could hide a threat. The building’s old HVAC system hums, masking smaller sounds. I lead her past the main stairs, pausing to listen. Silence. Not even a creak.
Good. Maybe they’re taking the elevator like amateurs. Human error. I’m counting on it.
Her hand tightens in mine—a silent question. I squeeze back once. Trust me.
We descend. Her foot finds each step exactly where mine was, learning my rhythm. She’s a quick study. The darkness strips away everything but essential movement, and she adapts faster than most trained operatives would.
But I can’t stop noticing other things. The way her breathing syncs with mine. How she instinctively moves closer when we pause, seeking security in proximity. The heat of her body just inches behind me.
Focus. She’s a package to deliver, not—
Not the woman who giggled when she put her cold feet on my back. Not the brilliant analyst whose mind works like a beautiful weapon, finding patterns I might miss. Not the contradiction of sharp intelligence and soft curves currently following me through darkness with absolute faith.
Third-floor landing. I signal a stop. She freezes instantly. No sound.
Voices drift up from below. Two men, low, casual—but the rhythm’s wrong. Too measured. Too careful.
“Sweep pattern alpha. Second floor’s clear.”
They’re coming up. We’re going down. Basic math says we’re fucked.
But I don’t do basic math.
The maintenance door is where I mapped it during my initial sweep. Building code requires them on every floor—old locks and easy picks—leading to service corridors that run parallel to the main structure. Most people don’t know they exist.
I slide the pick into the lock and work the tumblers as footsteps grow closer. The mechanism fights me—rusty, neglected. Come on, come on—
Click.
I pull Talia through, ease the door shut just as boots hit our landing.
Red emergency lighting bleeds across the space, painting everything in hellish hues. Rusted pipes snake overhead. Concrete walls weep moisture. The air reeks of mildew and decay—thick enough to taste.
“Jackson—” Her voice barely a whisper, but still too loud.
I spin, pressing my hand over her mouth. Her gasp warms my palm. She goes rigid, then melts back against the wall. I cage her with my body, shielding her from view of the door.
The curve of her jaw fits perfectly in my palm. Her lashes flutter against my fingers. She’s so close I can count individual freckles across her nose, even in the red gloom.
Boots strike the metal stairs outside. Heavy. Measured. Hunting.
The footsteps pause directly outside our door. The handle rattles once. Twice.
I press tighter against Talia, eliminating any gap between us. If that door opens, they’ll see me first, buy her seconds to run. Her fingers clutch my vest, knuckles white. She’s trembling—whole body vibrating against mine.
But her eyes … Her eyes are steady on mine. Trusting. Even now.
The handle rattles again. Harder.
My free hand goes to my weapon, thumb finding the safety. If they breach, I’ll have maybe two seconds before—
The footsteps move on. Up to four. Then five. Getting fainter.
I count thirty seconds in my head. No double-back. No second team.
Slowly, carefully, I peel my hand away from her mouth. My thumb drags across her lips—they’re damp, parted, her breath coming quick and shallow. The red emergency lighting turns her eyes into pools of shadow and fire.
We should move. Every second in one place increases risk.
I don’t move.
My hand slides down from her mouth, fingers trailing along her jaw, her throat, coming to rest on her shoulder. I can feel her pulse racing under my palm. Her chest rises and falls against mine, each breath pressing her closer.
“Jackson.” My name on her lips is barely sound, more vibration than voice.
One kiss and she’d melt completely. I can see it in the way her lips part, the way her body angles toward mine despite the danger. Hell, I want it too. Want to swallow those little sounds she makes when—
Footsteps above. Different pattern. Searching.
“Move,” I whisper against her ear, voice rougher than intended.
She nods quickly, slipping her hand back into mine. Her fingers are steadier now, grip firm. We navigate the maintenance corridor—a maze of pipes and electrical panels, decades of dust coating everything. Our footsteps echo faintly despite our care.
She follows without complaint, though I can hear her mind working. Little intake breaths when she spots something significant. A soft “hmm” when she’s mapping our route. Even silent, she can’t help analyzing.
The corridor opens into another stairwell—service stairs, probably haven’t been used since the last inspection. We descend quickly but quietly. Her hand never leaves mine.
Ground floor. Another locked door, this one newer. Security pins. False gates. My pick slips once. Twice. The mechanism’s fighting me, and my hands are less steady than they should be. Because I can still feel her pressed against me. Still taste the possibility of that almost-kiss.
“Need help?” She whispers it right against my shoulder, breath warm through my shirt.
“You pick locks?”
“I had an interesting childhood.”
Before I can process what that means, she’s beside me, producing something from her hair. Bobby pin. She works the lock with surprising skill, tongue caught between her lips, completely focused.
Christ, that’s attractive.
The lock clicks.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Library. Books are very educational.” She tucks the pin back in her hair. “Also, my father was paranoid about government surveillance. He taught me that the only way to stay safe is to know how to break into everything that tries to keep you out.”
Every time I think I have her categorized, she reveals another layer.
We exit into the parking garage. Three levels underground, minimal lighting, concrete pillars creating blind spots every ten feet. Perfect for an ambush.
Our vehicle sits twenty yards away. Too exposed. Too obvious.
I scan the garage. Three vans that weren’t here before. Positioned to block exits. No visible occupants, but tinted windows hide plenty.
“Phoenix?”
“Probability is high.” I throw her words back at her, and she makes a soft sound that might be amusement.
The vans are positioned to create a kill box. Professional spacing, overlapping fields of fire. They expect us to go for our vehicle.
So we don’t.
A Ducati sits in the corner, half-hidden behind a concrete pillar. Older model, ’09 or ’10. No electronic ignition to hack, no GPS to track. Perfect. I calculate hot-wire time—five seconds if I’m quick, eight if the wiring’s corroded.
“See the motorcycle?”
She nods.
“That’s our ride.”
“Another motorcycle?”
“You’ve got this. Just hold on.”
The image flashes unbidden—her arms wrapped around me, body pressed tight against my back, trusting me to navigate Chicago traffic at speed. My cock twitches at the thought.
Professional. Stay professional.
But she derailed that possibility when she picked that lock. When she pressed back against me this morning. When she started looking at me with those golden eyes, like I’m something more than just her protection.
“On three, we run. Fast and quiet.”
“What about the vans?”
“Trust me.”
She nods. No hesitation. That trust hits harder than it should.
I count down on my fingers. Three. Two. One.
We run.
My boots strike concrete in measured strides. Talia matches my pace perfectly, her breathing controlled despite the sprint. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
Van doors slide open behind us.
The sound echoes off concrete like rolling thunder. I drop to my knees beside the Ducati, fingers finding the ignition wires by muscle memory. Behind us, boots hit pavement—multiple contacts. They’re not even trying to be quiet.
Confident. Cocky.
Their mistake.
“Down!”
I spin, drawing my Glock in one smooth motion. Talia drops behind the pillar. Good girl.
Four shooters fan out in a semi-circle. Professional spacing, overlapping fields of fire. They’re trying to herd us toward the northeast corner. Death box. Too obvious. These aren’t Phoenix’s best.
I put two rounds through the nearest van’s front tire. The vehicle lists to the side with a violent hiss. The shooters adjust their position. I calculate angles. Distance. Cover points.
“The electrical panel,” Talia whispers beside me. “If you—”