Heist in Paradise (Crowmarked #1)

JAX

It was too late to run. For a second, I considered crawling into the engine bay like a grumpy weasel, but I knew that wouldn’t work. For one thing, I was six foot two and built like a fucking tank. For another, I valued my Jag way too much to risk damaging it.

The door opened behind me, the slant of sunlight instantly warming my back.

I shot my baby a regretful look as I dropped the hood.

We had a good run, almost a full hour of uninterrupted peace.

I couldn’t smell smoke, so the Compound was still standing, and the lack of gunshots meant nobody was dead or dying.

Still, I didn’t trust it. My crew were a loveable pack of assholes that thrived in chaos.

“There you are.” Ryle gave me a beaming grin as he strolled in. “You shouldn’t work in the dark. It’s bad for your eyes.”

Said the kid who liked to play fast and loose with his ADHD medication. “You need something?”

“Nope.”

“Piss off, then.”

“Actually,” he said, and I groaned. “It’s nothing bad,” he assured me, hefting himself up onto my workbench. His foot immediately started bouncing. No meds today, then. “Just wanted to see if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I said with an even tone. Practiced.

“Sure you are,” Ryle agreed easily, his eyes clearly stating otherwise. “On an unrelated note, I convinced Zola to buy some of that valerian root tea that tastes like wet dog.”

I grimaced. “Over my dead body.”

“You will be a dead body if you don’t start sleeping.” He looked me over meaningfully. “You look like warmed-up shit.”

I picked up a nearby wrench and tossed it at his head. He ducked it easily, my aim off-center. The little shit gave me a smug look. “A well-rested Jax would’ve made that shot.”

“Yeah, well, this Jax is about to knock you out with a mallet.”

Ryle laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I take it back. You’re clearly very fine. The finest. You wouldn’t do anything to put us in danger.”

Kill shot.

Ryle knew what he was doing. I was the leader of the crew, and that made them my responsibility. That meant I couldn’t get sloppy. I couldn’t make mistakes. I couldn’t strangle Ryle with my jumper cables, no matter how much I wanted to.

I sneered at him, but it was more posturing than real anger. He was impossible to stay mad at. With his big brown eyes, auburn curls, and freckles. He was only nineteen, our youngest, and not as damaged as he should be, considering his past. It made me protective of him.

“We all set to go?” I asked him.

He nodded eagerly. “Callum has mapped the perimeter and floor plan. He’s worried about the isolation. Not that he’ll admit it.”

No, Callum wouldn’t. His pride was like the rest of him—huge, commanding, and stubborn as hell.

“It is risky,” Ryle added, the first to rush to Callum’s defense. The two of them were thick as thieves, all pun intended.

“It always is,” I said with a sigh. Every job had its risks. Every job had the potential to blow up in our faces. The last one certainly had.

And now you’ll pay for it.

My throat tightened with an invisible noose. Our employer, Dr. Z, was like the goddamn boogeyman. Everywhere but nowhere. Always watching, always listening. Even though I’d never met him (and definitely had no burning desire to), his reputation alone could make a goldfish paranoid.

For six years, I’d been under his thumb. His recruiter had found me at a low point—barely twenty, with a record, and no family worth keeping. He’d offered me an easy score, a gateway drug into bigger hits.

That first job had snowballed into long-term employment.

Then the others had started showing up, bruised and battered and hungry.

Working alone had suited me just fine, but I adapted.

The crew became my family. And, like family, I gave myself a gold star every time I didn’t run them down with my car.

I suppose it could be worse. The job came with perks, like the Compound: a four-building estate on the outskirts of Washington. There was also the protection—the fake identities, the untraceable bank accounts, the access to weapons and military-grade tech.

All I’d ever wanted was a safe place to put my head at night. No knives buried under the pillows. No screaming. No flashing lights. Now I had a king memory foam mattress with Egyptian cotton sheets. Now I washed my balls with French soap, all fancy and shit.

Eau de testicles.

“Anything else?” I asked Ryle, who, among his cheeky habit of playing peacekeeper, was also a massive snoop. He could give the tabloids a run for their money.

“Ah, you know, the usual.” Ryle shrugged, picking up my wrench and fiddling with it. “Zola is fighting with Nate again. Something about finding an earring that wasn’t hers.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. He’s trying to save face, the poor numpty.”

My brow ticked up. “Numpty? You’ve been spending too much time with Callum.”

As expected, Ryle blushed a ripe tomato. “Madoc is up in the trees again,” he plowed on before I could tease him. “He keeps hurling pinecones at me when I try to talk to him.”

A weird, fluttery feeling unfurled in my gut. “Give him space. He’ll come down when he’s ready.”

“I don’t know. Madoc could probably live up there. He’s basically a raccoon.”

I smiled, unable to stop the image from forming—Madoc, our resident brood, with twigs in his hair and a nice pair of fuzzy black ears, armed with pinecones to protect his hollow. Affection and something hotter flared in my chest.

Jesus, I was getting sappy.

I needed a beer. Or a hard fuck. Preferably both.

I settled for a cigarette as I loaded up the cars and took stock of our supplies.

Most of our weapons were already shipped ahead to our next job.

It saved us from being ass-probed at the airport, though it’d probably happen anyway. I was just hot like that.

Patting my pockets uselessly, Ryle came to my aid with his trusty Zippo. He didn’t even smoke, but he liked to keep them on hand. That, or he was a secret pyro. One problem at a time.

Quietly, I mouthed around the cigarette: “You think he’s alright?”

Ryle shrugged again. “Madoc is Madoc. He’ll keep going. That’s all we can do, you know. Take it day by day. Find the good in the bad. Ride the waves to calmer seas.”

I huffed in amusement. “We need to cut down on the fortune cookies.”

“Can’t. I’m addicted. Cookies are my crack.”

Basking in the soothing hit of nicotine, we fell into an easy silence.

The metaphorical calmer seas. On habit, I glanced over at the two motorbike-shaped sheets in the corner.

It had been months since Madoc and I hit the road, no expectations, no set locations.

Just us and the open air and the zinging danger that came with every hard corner.

I missed him like a toothache. It hurt when we were together, especially when I prodded too hard, but damn, I kinda liked the pain.

It was my fault that things had changed between us.

I’d overstepped and then withdrawn too quickly, and instead of being mature and talking about it, we both shut down.

Feelings weren’t my strong suit. I almost wished he’d punch me out, so at least we’d have an excuse to engage.

My jaw clenched. “Tell the numptys to get packing. We leave at four on the dot.”

Ryle slipped off my workbench. He threw the wrench at me, hitting my chest dead center. “Aye, aye.” Cheeky fucker.

I rubbed my new bruise and flipped him off. “Bloodthirsty twat.”

“Be nice to me. I’m about to get a pinecone to the head.”

“Duck.”

“You know that won’t work. Madoc doesn’t miss.”

With that, Ryle slipped out the door, leaving it open so the message was clear: my solitude was over. Either I joined him, or he would set up camp in the workshop.

I couldn’t blame him. Ryle acted like a needy fuck when he was rattled.

Our last job had been a spectacular fail.

We’d lost half our loot in an ambush by a lowly street gang.

Nate had nearly been shot for it. Our success rate was high—higher than any other crew this side of the Pacific—but one bad hit could ruin us. Dr. Z didn’t keep dead weight.

It didn’t help that he’d already sent us a new job. A dangerous one, far outside our usual territory. I knew it was a test…one we couldn’t fail.

All our lives depended on it.