Chapter 7
Seven
Jagger
I’ve ridden home in worse conditions, but nothing has ever felt as brutal as the space between our bikes tonight. Adena kept her eyes forward the whole way—no eye contact, no warmth, just rigid control.
We barely clear the door before she moves toward the bathroom.
“I need a shower,” she says, still facing away. “Join me.”
There’s no heat in it. No tease. Just strategy wrapped in exhaustion, a warning disguised as an invitation—because in this place, privacy is another falsehood.
I follow her into the cramped bathroom and close the door behind us. She's already turning on the shower, hot water hissing against cheap tile. Her foot taps an impatient rhythm on the cracked floor—nervous energy with nowhere to go.
I release a sigh and rub at the back of my neck. "You want an explanation."
"You bet I do. You dragged me into that. I could have sat outside and waited." Her voice is steady, controlled—professional. But there's steel underneath. "I need to know there wasn't another way."
I keep my voice low. "There wasn’t. I vouched for you—that means if Marquez wants you somewhere, you go.”
Her jaw tightens, and I can see her readying another question, so I get ahead of her.
“Paco would have shot him—one bullet to the head. That’s why Marquez had him call me to deal with it. He knows Paco is a hothead."
She stares at me, processing. Her jaw works once, tension rippling through it.
"It was the lesser evil. The only choice I had."
"The lesser evil." She repeats the phrase slowly, like she's testing the weight of it, trying to decide if it's enough. “Is that how you live with evil? You think it’s necessary?”
I’m not about to justify my actions to someone who has no real understanding or first-hand knowledge of what long-term, deep cover actually looks like, or what it does to a person.
If we pull this off, I’m done. New Orleans will be in my rearview, and I can move on to the next job. She’s a passenger.
“You could have—” she starts to say.
Three sharp knocks shatter the tension.
We both freeze. Our eyes meet.
I move on instinct—strip off my shirt, boots, and socks, then stick my head under the shower spray just long enough to plaster my hair to my skull.
No one knocks at this hour. Not friends. Not neighbors. Nothing good comes from a knock after midnight.
“Do the same,” I say to her. “Marquez likes to drop by unannounced.”
I learned that the hard way, and I’m not repeating that mistake with her here.
Understanding flashes across her face, and she removes her jacket and pulls her weapon out.
I grab my FN from where it's resting on the vanity, chamber already loaded. Check it by feel, not sight. "Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone but me."
When I’m sure she’s ready, I step into the hall, pull the door closed. The lock clicks behind me immediately. It won’t hold, but if anyone tries to get to her, they’ll have to go through me first.
Three more knocks, harder this time.
Water trails down my spine as I cross the apartment, each step deliberate and quiet despite the wet footprints I'm leaving on the hardwood. I tuck the gun behind my back, grip familiar and cold, and check the peephole.
Of course, it's Paco.
Speak of the devil, and you conjure him.
I open the door just wide enough, angling my body to block the view inside. Water drips from my hair onto my bare shoulders, slides down my chest. Perfect.
"Little busy, man," I say. Let irritation color my voice—not too much, just enough to sell it.
Paco grins, but it's all teeth and no warmth. His eyes are flat, assessing. "Got news."
Something cold settles in my gut. "What kind of news?"
"Luis." He shrugs, casual as discussing the weather. "Didn't make it."
The floor tilts slightly. I force it steady. "He's dead?"
"Started spitting up blood. Dumped him outside his place." Paco's grin widens, like he's sharing a joke only he understands. "Message sent and received."
Bile crawls up my throat. I swallow it down, force my face into something resembling approval. My lips feel frozen, uncooperative. "Next time, send me a text."
Paco's gaze slides past my shoulder—slow, deliberate. I watch his eyes track the wine glasses still sitting on the table, the dishes piled in the sink, the faint smell of garlic and tomato sauce lingering in the air.
Remains of the dinner we ate in silence before we visited the cemetery.
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. Suspicion.
Then it's gone, buried under a lazy grin.
He taps the doorframe twice with his knuckles. "See you at the meet."
The door closes. I stay there, hand still on the frame, until I hear his footsteps fade down the hallway. Count to ten. Then twenty.
When I'm sure he's gone, I close my eyes and bang my head on the door frame.
Hard.
Adena
The shower hisses behind me as I crack the door open. My pulse hammers in my throat. He’s sitting in the kitchen staring at his weapon on the table.
He still hasn’t moved when I slip out of the bathroom; the gun has his complete attention.
His gaze finally lifts, unfocused at first, then his hands flatten against the table, palms spread like he’s trying to brace himself. “Luis is dead,” he says. “He didn’t survive his injuries.”
Dead. The word ricochets through me.
My mind scrambles. Am I supposed to react? Laugh? Make a joke for whoever is listening?
None of that seems to matter right now, not when Jagger is staring at his FN like it offers a solution.
I’ve never been good at comforting people, worse at knowing what to say when something is beyond repair. I didn’t grow up learning the language of empathy—just the language of survival.
But if there’s anything he needs right now, it’s to know I’m not sitting here in judgment.
I stand without thinking, move to the kitchen, and start praying as I switch on the coffee machine.
Lord, I can’t imagine what this is doing to him. You know I’m lousy at playing comforter, but You are my source of comfort. Let me pour out some of that onto him in Your name.
The coffee machine hisses to life, filling the silence with something gentle, something human. My hands work deliberately: pour, tilt, breathe. When the crema settles, I place the cup of warmed milk in front of him.
Just like Silas did the first night I arrived at Jericho, still wondering what on earth I was doing at a private security company disguised as a working ranch in North Dakota.
He blinks. His brow lifts in genuine, unguarded surprise. His fingers hover over the cup, suspended. The confusion in his eyes is raw, unfiltered—a man trying to translate a gesture he doesn’t have a reference for.
He’s not the only one. I don’t understand any of this either.
But I know when I’m being nudged by something bigger than me, so I inch my chair closer. “Drink it.”
He reaches for the mug before he looks up at me.
“Stay with me tonight,” he says.
His voice is guttural, but it isn’t a proposition. It’s a pitiful plea from a desperate man sitting across from a gun, shadowed by guilt heavy enough to crush him.
My gaze follows one scar from shoulder to wrist. Every line and every tattoo on his body is a story. Every inch of him is a warning.
But, despite knowing the danger, I nod my agreement.
Because Lord help me, I couldn’t leave this wounded, unraveling man alone tonight—even if I wanted to.
Jagger
I wake to sunlight slicing through the blinds and the disorienting realization that I slept.
Not the half-conscious drift I've survived on for years, jerking awake at every sound. Real sleep. Deep enough that my body feels heavy, relaxed in a way I'd forgotten was possible.
Adena is beside me. Still dressed—jeans, tank top, socks even. Like she couldn't fully commit to letting her guard down. Her fingers are wrapped around the grip of her weapon, resting on her stomach. Even in sleep, she's ready.
Her hair spills in waves across the pillow, catching the morning light. Her breathing is even, peaceful. Lips slightly parted.
Tempting doesn't quite cover it.
Dangerous is more accurate—because looking at her like this, unguarded and trusting enough to sleep beside me, makes me want things I have no right to want.
I lean closer, not thinking it through. Close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Close enough to—
"Don't even think about it," she says, voice still rough with sleep.
I jerk back. "You awake this whole time?"
Her eyes open—sharp, alert, no trace of grogginess. The gun grip tightens fractionally in her hand.
"Long enough." She looks at me with one eyebrow raised, expression caught somewhere between amused and exasperated.
She sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, putting immediate distance between us.
"Breakfast," she says, yawning.
With a grunt, I haul myself out of bed and stumble into the bathroom. One blast under the water, a fresh T-shirt later, and I'm in the kitchen staring at the contents of my fridge—eggs, butter, that are only there because Adena told me to pick them up last night.
My phone vibrates on the counter. I don’t need to check to know it’ll be Marquez.
Adena's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me closely.
I answer. "Yeah."
"Pickup in the warehouse district. Needs to be in Memphis by tonight. You and your girl are riding with it."
My jaw tightens. Memphis is six hours. Maybe more, depending on traffic and weather.
"What kind of pickup?"
"The kind that needs supervision. And documentation." He pauses. "Your girl's work needs to hold up under scrutiny."
Translation: if her forgeries don't pass, we're both dead.
"When do we leave?"
"Two hours. I'm texting you the warehouse address. Don't be late."
The line goes dead.
I set the phone down carefully. Adena's still in the doorway, but her posture has changed—alert, ready.
"Work?" she asks.
"Memphis. Today. We're escorting a shipment."
She pushes off the doorframe. "How long?"
"There and back? Two days, probably."
She moves to the coffee maker and starts it up. "How much time do I have?"
I check my watch. "Hour and a half, maybe less. I’ll pick up the cargo first, then you'll work while we're loading."
Her eyebrow hitches as she pours coffee into two mugs. "You want me to forge federal documents while you go load drugs into a truck?"
"That’s what I said."
She hands me a mug. "Just wanted to clarify the working conditions."
I crack eggs into a pan, probably with less finesse than she would've managed.
"Eat fast when it's ready," I say. "Clock's ticking."
She leans against the counter, sipping her coffee. "No worries. You know I work better under pressure anyway."
She'd better, because we're about to escort enough illegal narcotics to put us away for life, and the only thing standing between us and federal prison is her forged paperwork.
Adena
The second Jagger’s out the door, I pull up the template files I've been refining since I agreed to this job: DEA Form 222—the official order form for Schedule II controlled substances; transport manifests; chain of custody documentation.
The problem isn't creating convincing forgeries. I can do that in my sleep.
The problem is I don't know what checkpoint we're hitting, what technology they're using, or what will trigger extra scrutiny.
I start with the basics—company name, addresses, DEA registration numbers. Everything has to cross-reference correctly. One inconsistent detail and the whole thing falls apart.
My fingers move across the keyboard, muscle memory taking over. I've done this before—different circumstances, different reasons, but the skillset is the same.
The pharmaceutical company has to be real but obscure enough that no one will call to verify. Small enough to be believable, big enough to handle this volume.
I find one—a legitimate distributor in Baton Rouge that handles medical supplies for rural clinics. Perfect. They're real, they're licensed, and they're small enough that their paperwork won't be instantly recognizable.
I forge their letterhead, their signature blocks, their routing numbers.
The security paper feeds through my portable printer—expensive stuff, with the right weight, the right texture, watermarks that show under UV light.
Twenty-eight minutes.
The transport manifest is next. This is where most forgers screw up—they focus on making it look official and forget to make it boring.
Real manifests are tedious, detailed, full of tracking numbers and regulatory codes that mean nothing to most people but everything to inspectors who know what they're looking for.
I fill in serial numbers, lot codes, expiration dates, cross-referencing them against actual pharmaceutical databases to make sure nothing flags as suspicious.
The embosser is last—pressing the official seal into the paper with just enough force that it's visible but not overdone.
Fifteen minutes.
I hold the first document up to the light. The watermark shows perfectly. The embossing is clean. The signatures look authentic because I traced them from actual DEA personnel files I pulled before I left Hightower.
It's good work.
Better than good.
But is it good enough?
Let it be enough. Please.
A knock on the door. "Time," Jagger calls.
I gather the documents, slip them into a leather portfolio, and open the door.
He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes slide to the portfolio, then to my face.
"Done?"
"Done."
"They good?"
I meet his gaze. "If they aren't, this is the last forgery I'll ever make.”
His mouth quirks—not quite a smile. “I trust you,” he says.
Heat creeps up my neck at his sincerity. “Getting sentimental?”
His lip curls as he looks me over. “Never,” he murmurs. “Not even for you.”