Chapter 5
Five
Adena
The fear that’s been wrapped around my lungs slowly begins to let go. My grip steadies. My heartbeat finds its rhythm again. Out here, with nothing but heat and open sky, the danger feels distant—still real, still possible, but not pressing against my spine.
Jagger rides just ahead, leading the way.
I still don’t know if I can rely on him. But for the first time in hours, my body believes we might actually be okay.
He veers toward the Lake Pontchartrain exit, and I fall in behind him, the road narrowing to a ribbon between cypress trunks and drifting curtains of moss. The air shifts—thicker, salt-wet—and I inhale it like it’s the first real breath I’ve had all day.
Then the trees break open, and the lake stretches out ahead of us, wide and glittering, too bright to stare at for long.
We pull into a gravel lot beside a worn-down seafood shack. Gravel pops under my tires as I stop. Faded umbrellas sag over picnic tables, and the tang of fried fish curls toward me before I even take off my helmet.
Jagger’s already standing beside his bike, helmet in hand, hair a tousled mess. He rolls his neck like he’s shedding something heavy, and for a heartbeat, he looks less like the man who lives for violence and more like a man trying to breathe.
I climb off, and my legs wobble for half a second. The adrenaline is still buzzing through me, waiting for a threat that—for once—doesn’t immediately come.
He nods toward the shack. “You hungry?”
“Sure. Illicit activities always make me hungry,” I mutter.
He huffs a laugh—an unexpected, unguarded sound that’s completely at odds with the man who was steel edges an hour ago.
We walk to the window, he orders shrimp po’boys and sweet tea, and we settle at a picnic table overlooking the lake.
For a few minutes, we just eat. No words. No threat. No game.
When I finally speak, I ask the question Nolan wouldn’t answer. “How many times have you done this?”
He wipes his thumb against a napkin. “What? Lunch?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
A pause. “A few.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
I study him. The blank walls. The way he watches everything without looking like he is. The coiled readiness under the casual posture.
“You ever lose track of… who you are today?” I ask.
His jaw clenches. “I keep track,” he says. “That’s the job.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Another pause—longer this time. “Some days are… noisier than others.”
It’s the closest thing to honesty I’ve heard from him.
“You don’t ever want out?” I ask.
“Want’s not part of it.”
“That’s not an answer either.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” His voice is calm, not defensive, not irritated, just final.
His gaze wavers, and for a second, he looks worn down—as if every decision has taken a piece of him.
“And if one day all the noise catches up to you?” I press. “Then what?”
A muscle ticks in his cheek. “Then I hope it hits me on my own time,” he says. “Not yours.”
It’s blunt. Hard. Protective in a way he probably didn’t mean to show.
I swallow. “Your handler, Nolan, he wants me to evaluate you. Decide whether they need to pull you out.”
Jagger doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. I figured. He said as much.”
“If your own people have doubts, why stay?” I ask softly.
His eyes stay on the lake. “Because someone has to walk into the places other people run from.”
He says it like it’s a choice he already made and will keep making until it kills him.
“What are you going to tell Nolan?” he asks.
I hold his gaze. “Nothing he doesn’t already know.”
He finally meets my eyes. There's no mask there. No cover. Just a man who knows his own people think he should quit.
"You did what you needed to back there. You didn't freeze. You didn't run. I need that in a partner."
He pauses. For a fraction of a second, something cracks—uncertainty, maybe, or the weight of admitting out loud what he needs. Then his jaw tightens, and he pushes through it.
His voice drops lower. “Hate to admit it, but I need you, Tiger.”
A slow burn coils low in my stomach—uninvited, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.
I should shut this down. Put distance between us before it becomes something I can’t take back.
The burn spreads—into my chest, my throat—and I have to steady my breathing, fight the urge to look away.
Because looking away would give him ground.
Jagger
The moment we hit open road, she punches it. No warning, no glance back—just raw acceleration and the Street Bob snarling like it’s trying to tear free of the asphalt.
I twist the throttle hard, and the Ducati responds instantly—pure Italian engineering, all power and precision. The engine screams as I shift up through the gears, the world blurring into streaks of green and gray and burning sunlight.
She's ahead by half a bike length, her black chrome gleaming as she carves through the heat shimmer rising off the road.
We hit the straightaway near the industrial district, and I push harder, leaning forward, feeling the Monster come alive beneath me like a barely tamed animal.
The wind tears at my jacket, tries to rip the helmet off my head.
The asphalt rushes past in a continuous gray blur, broken only by the white dashes of lane markers.
She weaves through the sparse midday traffic like she was born doing this—smooth, aggressive, absolutely fearless.
A sedan ahead, she slips past on the left.
A delivery truck blocking the right lane, she cuts inside without hesitation.
I match her move for move, adrenaline flooding my system, my focus narrowing to nothing but her and the road.
The exit ramp comes up fast—too fast—and she takes it hard, leaning so low I swear her knee's about to scrape pavement. I'm right behind her, feeling the G-force pull as I carve through the turn, the Ducati's tires gripping like they're glued to the asphalt.
She edges ahead again as we straighten out. Just barely. Maybe a foot.
The city streets are tighter now, more dangerous. Stop lights on every block, pedestrians stepping off curbs without looking, delivery trucks double-parked in the right lanes. But she doesn't slow down. If anything, she pushes harder.
And so do I.
We fly through an intersection as the light turns yellow, our engines roaring in perfect, furious harmony. A cab lays on its horn, the sound dopplering away behind us. Someone on the sidewalk shouts. I don't care.
All I see is her—black and chrome, leaning into every turn, riding like she's got nothing to lose.
The Marigny comes into view, the streets narrowing even more. Shotgun houses painted in faded pastels flash past, iron railings and sagging porches and overgrown gardens. My street is two blocks away now.
One block.
She opens the throttle one last time, and so do I. We're pushing the bikes to their limits, the engines screaming, the world reduced to speed and sound and the razor-thin space between winning and crashing.
We're even. Dead even. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, both of us leaning forward, both of us refusing to back down.
Then she dips right, cutting through a gap between a parked car and a garbage truck that I didn't even see, a space so narrow I wouldn't have risked it.
And she crosses into my street half a second before me.
I pull up beside her bike and kill the engine, my chest heaving. My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. My hands are still buzzing from the vibration, my whole body humming with leftover adrenaline.
She's already off her bike, yanking her helmet free with shaking hands.
And she's smiling.
Not the careful, calculated smile she gave Marquez in the warehouse. Not the teasing, playful one she used on me at breakfast this morning.
It hits me harder than the entire ride did.
I watch her shake out her hair, her cheeks flushed from the heat and the rush.
"Told you I always win."
I swing off the Ducati, my legs unsteady beneath me. "You cut through that gap illegally."
"You would've done the same thing if you'd seen it first."
Not sure she’s right. Not sure I have the guts.
"Next time," I start to say. But the words catch in my throat.
Because there's no scenario where this doesn't end. Either we take down Marquez and she disappears from my life, or we don't—and neither of us makes it out. Win or lose, this moment right here? It's all we get.
Before I can think it through, before I can stop myself, I close the distance between us and kiss her.
For half a second she goes rigid—surprised—then her hand comes up to my jaw, and she kisses me back.
My heart's hammering harder than it did during the race. The taste of sweet tea and adrenaline. The heat of the sun and her skin. Everything sharpens into this single, reckless moment I’m stealing.
I pull back when what's left of my conscience makes itself heard.
"Thought I saw someone watching," my voice comes out rough.
Her eyes search mine for a second—like she's trying to figure out if I'm telling the truth—then she glances over her shoulder. When she looks back, something's shifted in her expression. Careful again. Guarded.
"I don’t see anyone," she says quietly.
"Could have been mistaken."
But we both know no one was watching.
Just me, lying because I've forgotten how to exist without playing the role of the bad guy.
Adena
After the noise of the day, the silence of Jagger's apartment is overwhelmingly depressing.
No photos. No books. Nothing that says anyone actually lives here.
It's temporary. Anonymous. He’s been here three years, living nothing but the cover. Three years and there's nothing of him in this apartment except absence.
No wonder Marquez questioned whether he was committed.
Jagger locks the door behind us, and the kiss sits between us like a third person in the room, taking up space, demanding attention.
Thought I saw someone watching.
I know he didn't. He knows I know.
But I can't call him on it. Not here. Not when the apartment is wired.
He kissed me—really kissed me—and then lied about it. He created a reason. An excuse that made sense but doesn’t.
And now I'm standing in his apartment pretending everything's fine when what I want is answers I can't ask for until we're somewhere safe. Somewhere away from listening devices and surveillance.
I move to the refrigerator and pull it open. Beer. Milk. That's it.
"You need to hit the store," I say, and my voice sounds normal because I've learned how to sound normal a long time ago. "And I want to get some flowers to put on Tommy's grave."
He tenses. Just slightly. A micro-expression that says he knows exactly why I want to go to the graveyard. Because the graveyard is where we can talk. Where he can be real.
"Yeah. Okay. Make a list, and I’ll pick it up," he says carefully, each word measured. "I need to run out anyway. Errand for Marquez."
I glance back at him. He's still by the door, jacket unzipped, watching me like he's waiting for me to break cover, to demand answers, to do something that would expose us both.
He doesn't move. Doesn't explain. Just waits.
"How long?" I ask.
"Hour. Maybe two."
I cross my arms. “Fine. You run your errand, then we’ll go see Tommy.”
With a flicker of a grimace, he disappears into the bathroom. The moment the water hits the tiles, I move. If I can't demand the truth out loud, I can at least find out how deep Jagger’s cover runs.
The coffee table yields nothing—just bottles and a remote.
The bookshelf is bare except for boxing DVDs.
Kitchen drawers hold basics and nothing more.
I work methodically, checking places where people hide things: behind the microwave, under the sink, inside boxes where someone might stash documents.
Nothing.
The shower's still running.
I move to the bedroom.
Unmade bed, sheets twisted like he battles every night. Dresser against the wall. I open the drawers one by one—T-shirts folded with military precision, jeans, socks. Everything organized. Everything controlled. Everything a lie.
Nothing personal. Nothing real. Nothing that tells me who he is when no one's watching.
I close the last drawer and sit on his bed and let the despair of this room wash over me. Three years. He's been here three years in a place that contains nothing except the performance of being here. No life. No history. No truth.
The shower stops.
I should stand up. Should move. Should be anywhere but sitting on his bed when he comes out, but I don't. I stay exactly where I am because I need to see his face when he realizes I've been searching.
He appears in the doorway, hair wet and pushed back, wearing a faded gray Henley that clings to his shoulders. Water drips down his neck and disappears beneath the collar.
His expression doesn't change. Not a flicker of surprise. Not a hint of anger.
Just acknowledgment.
He knew I would look. He probably expected it.
I don't know if that kiss was real or just another layer of the lie he's been building for three years. I don't know if the man standing in front of me is Jagger or the version of Jagger he's created.
But I know one thing for certain:
If that wasn’t a fake kiss, his handler was right to be concerned.