Chapter 10
Ten
Adena
I’m already praying when the bell above the door jingles.
The two officers from the cruiser step inside, shaking rain off their jackets. One's older—maybe late forties, with a gray mustache and the kind of gut that comes from too many shift meals. The other's younger, lean, with sharp eyes that sweep the diner like he's memorizing every face.
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression neutral. Fork to mouth. Chew. Swallow. Just another tired traveler eating catfish on a stormy night.
Across from me, Jagger's head down, eating his meal. He doesn’t even glance up, he's too well-trained for that—but there's a coiled tension in his shoulders that wasn't there thirty seconds ago.
The officers head for the counter. The older one takes a stool, the younger one stays standing, surveying the room one more time before settling beside his partner.
Lurleen appears with coffee and menus, her voice carrying across the diner. "Evening, boys. Y'all want the usual?"
"Please, ma'am," the older officer says. "Long night ahead."
The younger officer glances our way.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I flash him the smile that won me Little Miss Chicago when I was seven—all polished charm and perfect posture.
He smiles back, a little too warmly, and turns to face the counter.
I exhale slowly through my nose and reach for my sweet tea. "How's the meatloaf?" I ask Jagger, keeping my voice light.
He chews mechanically and bobs his head, his Cajun accent thickening. "Almost as good as Dooky Chase's. 'Course, Leah would never use this much ketchup in the glaze."
I laugh like we're having a normal conversation.
Lurleen brings the officers their food. They eat, talking in low voices. I can't make out the words, but the tone sounds routine. Shift talk.
I'm halfway through my catfish when the younger officer stands. For a second I think he’s coming to flirt, but he’s not.
"Evening, folks." He stops at our table, friendly smile in place. "That your rig out front? The white box truck?"
Jagger looks up from his food. "Surely is."
The officer nods, takes a sip of coffee. "We got reports of some trouble on Highway 10 earlier this evening. Shots fired, couple vehicles involved. You happen to see anything unusual?"
My mouth goes dry, and I let my fingers flutter to my mouth, the way any normal civilian would upon hearing about violence on the roads.
“That’s awful! Was anyone hurt?”
The officer's gaze shifts to me. “No, ma’am. Not that we could tell.”
Not that they could tell? That sounds like the pickup truck that flipped was empty.
I feign relief I don’t feel as he swings his gaze back to Jagger, studying, assessing.
“You see anything, sir?”
Jagger shakes his head. “Nothing.”
The officer fixes his gaze on him for a few more beats, then bobs his head. "Roads are dangerous tonight. You folks be careful out there."
"Will do, officer," Jagger says.
The officer tips his head and walks back to the counter.
I don't breathe. Don't look at Jagger. Just cut another piece of fish and bring it to my mouth, even though I can't taste anything anymore.
“He’s right. The roads are dangerous,” I say.
Jagger’s eyes meet mine, an almost unreadable expression on his face, as he picks up his coffee. “Yeah. Deadly,” he says quietly.
Jagger
I pull out my wallet, count out cash with fingers that want to move faster than they should—enough to cover the meal plus a decent tip. Not too much—that draws attention. Not too little—that gets remembered.
"Ready?" I ask quietly.
Adena nods, dabbing her mouth with her napkin before setting it on her empty plate.
The officers are still at the counter, eating their catfish. The older one's telling some story, gesturing with his fork. The younger one laughs.
I have to walk right past them to get to the door.
My boots feel heavy, each step measured, hand relaxed at my side even though my fingers itch to check the gun at my back.
Three steps. Four. Five.
The younger officer glances up as I pass. Our eyes meet for half a second.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck, but I keep my face neutral, give him a slight nod—the kind strangers exchange in small-town diners.
He nods back, then returns to his meal.
Six more steps to the door. My shoulder blades tingle, waiting for a voice to call out. Sir? Can we ask you a few more questions?
I reach the door and push it open. The bell jingles overhead, too cheerful for how my pulse is hammering.
Adena's right behind me, close enough that I can hear her breathing.
The rain hits us the second we step outside. Cold. Sharp. Soaking through my jacket in seconds. The parking lot's a maze of puddles reflecting the diner's lights.
I don't look back. Don't check if the officers are watching through the window.
Just jog to the truck and unlock it.
My shirt's already sticking to my back by the time I slide behind the wheel. Water drips from my hair down my neck, cold enough to make me shiver.
I start the engine. The wipers kick on automatically, beating a rhythm that does nothing to slow my pulse.
In the passenger seat, Adena's breathing is controlled, measured. But I can see water beading on her jacket, the slight tremor in her hands before she folds them in her lap.
I pull out slowly, forcing my foot to ease off the gas even though every instinct screams to floor it.
Rain hammers the windshield. The wipers can barely keep up, smearing water across the glass in thick sheets. Visibility's maybe thirty feet. The roads are slick, shining black under the headlights, water pooling in every low spot.
My hands ache from gripping the wheel.
No one was hurt. Not that we could tell.
The rival crew cleaned up fast, got their people out before the cops arrived, which means they're organized, efficient, and probably already regrouping.
Lightning flashes, turning everything white for a split second. Thunder follows—closer now, rattling through my chest.
Crazy to be out here. Crazy to have let her talk me into this.
I check the mirror again. Nothing but rain and darkness swallowing the road behind us.
I glance at Adena. She's staring out the window, her face reflected in the glass—pale, composed, still on.
The white line down the center of the road blurs and doubles in the rain. I blink hard, force my eyes to focus. One mile at a time. Get us back safe.
I pull into the lot and reverse park near our room, angling so we can see anyone approaching.
Adena’s the first to move; she’s out the door and jogging before I switch off the engine.
I slam the door, lock the truck, set the alarm, and run after her. Rain is coming at us sideways as I jam the key into the flimsy lock.
Out of habit, I sweep the room and catch myself smiling when I notice her doing the same.
“The cops,” she says. “Pretty big coincidence, don’t you think?”
I do think. “They just happened to pick the same diner, same time.”
She nods and peels off her wet jacket. “Are they dirty?”
I shrug. “No way of knowing who’s on Marquez’s payroll and who’s just doing their job until it’s too late.”
She grabs a handful of her hair and squeezes out the water onto the threadbare carpet. “Never thought I’d be lying to the good guys.”
I strip off my jacket and toss it on the closest chair. “If they’re clean, they’ll understand.”
Something flickers on her face. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“Think of it as another necessary evil,” I say.
When she doesn’t reply, I cross my arms. “Undercover isn’t pretending to be someone else. It’s silencing pieces of yourself. You become whatever the moment needs.”
Her gaze drops, lashes shadowing her eyes. “What if the moment demands something you can’t afford to lose?”
I answer without hesitation, knowing the impact it’ll have on her. “You do it anyway.”
And you do. Because what Adena hasn't figured out yet is that when you're this deep undercover, sometimes it's the good guys who get you killed.
Adena
Jagger lets me take the first shower, and it's just as well.
The motel room feels smaller than it did when we first walked in. Two beds. One bathroom. Him on the other side of the thin door, close enough that I can hear him moving around, the creak of the mattress as he sits, the rustle of his jacket.
This isn't like staying at my own apartment, where every move we made was being watched. Here, there's nowhere to retreat. Nowhere to hide from the reality that we're alone together, pretending while something real keeps trying to surface.
Try as I might, I can't push down the guilt anymore.
I scoured scripture to back up my decision to come here, but I can't get past a single verse that’s currently playing on repeat in my head.
I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves; so be as shrewd as serpents and as innocent as doves.
Innocent is something I most certainly am not. And the more time I spend in Jagger's company, the further away I get.
I swore I could handle this. But how can I justify doing all the things God hates?
I turn the shower on—the pipes groan and knock before water sputters out—and lock the door. The lock feels flimsy. Inadequate. Like everything else about this situation.
If I ever needed one of Zack's prayers, it's now.
I need clarity and wisdom. And I need it in spades.
I undress quickly, folding my clothes and setting them on the counter beside Mercy. The porcelain sink is chipped, stained yellow around the drain. The mirror is fogged at the edges. Everything in the room has been worn down by years of people passing through, leaving nothing of themselves behind.
That's what I'm supposed to do. Pass through. Leave nothing behind.
So why does it feel like every hour I spend with him strips away another layer of who I thought I was? Like I’m leaving pieces of myself scattered behind me with every decision, every glance, every lie I’ve let stand?
I step under the shower. The water is almost scalding—good. I let it hammer over my shoulders, my spine, letting the heat sting until it borders on pain. Anything to quiet my thoughts.
Steam gathers thick around me, and for the first time since we left New Orleans, I pray aloud. Not the whispered fragments I’ve been clinging to between forged signatures and cartel threats, but actual words.
“God… thank You. For protection. For seeing us through.”
Relief loosens something inside me. But even as the praise leaves my lips, the peace won’t settle. It flutters, slips, refuses to land.
Because if I stand here long enough, I can’t avoid the real questions.
God made allowances for withheld truth.
But what about this? What about pretending to be someone I’m not—living in half-truths, navigating full lies? What about letting Jagger believe things I haven’t corrected? What about letting him kiss me?
I press my palms flat against the tile and bow my head. The water runs down my back in relentless rivulets, but it can’t wash the guilt off.
Concealing information isn’t sin. But why I’m doing it might be.
I can justify the undercover work. I can justify protecting the mission. I can justify withholding details that would compromise the DEA and Hightower and every life this operation might save.
But I can’t justify the way my heart stumbles when he looks at me like I’m the only person in his collapsing world worth holding onto.
I can’t justify how the danger makes everything feel sharper, closer, more intimate than it should.
I tilt my head back, letting the water run into my hair, over my face, blurring everything. But it doesn’t drown the truth pressing in from every direction.
The real compromise isn’t the lies I tell to keep us alive.
It’s the ones I’m starting to tell myself.