Chapter 11
Eleven
Jagger
I'm half watching a local weather channel’s report about the storm system moving through when the bathroom door opens a crack, and she peers out. Steam billows into the room, carrying the scent of cheap motel soap.
"Hand me my bag, would you?"
From my spot on the bed, I cross my ankles and give her a teasing smile. "Just got comfortable. Come get it yourself."
She growls low, and I swear I can see her jaw tighten even through the narrow opening. "Quit messing around, Jagger. Give me my bag so I can get changed."
Much as I'd like to see her come out wearing only a towel, I'm pretty sure she'd make me pay for it. Probably with another Krav Maga move I won't see coming.
I make a show of getting up, stretching like it's the hardest thing I've done all day, and amble across to where she dropped her duffel by the door.
She uses the door as a shield, keeping it pressed against her shoulder. Steam continues to roll out around her, and through the gap I catch a glimpse of bare shoulder, damp skin, water droplets trailing down—
She snatches the bag from my hand before I can get a better look.
When she steps out a few minutes later, she's dressed—fresh jeans, a faded black T-shirt with some grunge band logo on it, and her boots laced tight. Her hair is damp, pulled back in a ponytail. She's scowling at me, and her weapon is in her hand, not aimed at me.
Yet.
She drops the bag down and sends me a hot glare. "What was that about?"
I eye her and reach for the remote, turning the weather report down. "Are we doing this? Been a long day, Tiger. I'm going to shower then—"
"You were trying to look."
I sigh. "I’m a man, Adena. Of course I was trying to look."
She crosses her arms. "Boundaries. Remember?"
"Boundaries. Right." I stand up. "Then why’d you get one room?"
"What?"
"You checked us in. Single room. That was your call."
Her eyes flash. "Our cover is a couple."
I shake my head. "Our cartel cover is two delivery drivers."
Her shoulders tighten, and she crosses her arms—a defensive posture I haven't seen from her before. "Not so easy, is it? Keeping the lies separate?"
When she doesn't answer, I take a step closer—invading her space deliberately, close enough to make this dangerous. "The cops show up, they'll want to know why we're sharing. That would mean more lies."
When she starts to speak, I hold up my hand. "But if Marquez finds out we got two rooms on his dime, he'll wonder why. So what’s the right lie to tell, Tiger?"
Her jaw tightens. She's held steady through everything so far, but the thought of sharing a room when we don't have to? That's what finally gets to her.
Something primal in me wants to push her until she gives in and admits that my way is the only way.
"The best you can do is make a call about who to lie to and hope no one gets hurt."
Her eyes drift from me to her feet. She’s quiet for a moment, breathes in, out, and instantly her face relaxes, then shifts into an alarmingly sweet smile. "You're right. I do need to make a call, but I don't need to lie."
I brace myself, half-expecting her to throw a punch. Instead, she calmly picks up my jacket and throws it at me, hard enough that I have to catch it or take it in the face.
"Not every situation requires more lies. If Marquez asks, tell him I kicked you out because you were being a jerk."
I stand there, jacket in hand, completely blindsided. Somehow, she’s found a way to solve the problem without lying—just by telling a version of the truth that works for both covers.
I should be annoyed.
Instead, I'm wildly impressed I’ve just been outmaneuvered.
Adena
To keep myself from spiraling—and from thinking about the man in the room next door—I find a Christian station playing hymns.
I breathe in each one, then pull my cleaning kit from my bag and set it on the bed beside me. The ritual isn't about toughness. It's about calm. Order. Familiar motions in a world that hasn't felt familiar since the moment I walked into Marquez's orbit.
Mercy comes apart easily beneath my hands.
Magazine.
Slide.
Barrel.
Spring.
I handle each piece gently, wiping away grime, checking for wear.
The hymn changes to one of my favorites, In Christ Alone, and I sing along. The melody steadies me, keeps my breathing even while the storm finishes its tantrum outside the window.
When Mercy is whole again, I set her on the nightstand and walk the thin strip of carpet between the beds, whispering scripture.
Cast all your anxiety onto Him because He cares for you.
Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, present your requests to God.
The words feel like the only things keeping me upright. They're the thread between who I am in Christ… and who I have to be to stay alive in this lie.
If we make it back to New Orleans, we step right back under Marquez's magnifying glass. Every word we say will be dissected. Every breath judged. And somewhere in that maze, I have to find a way to reach Jake and let Silas know I'm okay.
I sit on the bed, lace my fingers together, and pray aloud.
"Father… please. Don't let me lose myself. Give me wisdom sharper than the lies around me. Keep my spirit anchored even when my mouth can't be. Guard my heart from confusion… especially where Jagger is concerned. Lord, be the boundary between us when I can't trust myself to be."
I kick off my boots and lie back, staring at the stained ceiling, waiting for the peace that surpasses all understanding.
I close my eyes and drift off, holding to the promise that when I am weakest, His strength is already at work.
Jagger
I'm lying on top of the covers, fully dressed, boots still on. FN resting like lead on my chest. The room stinks of thirty years of smoke and sweat, but I've slept in worse. Or I would sleep, if I could.
The greasy-haired clerk hadn't asked questions when I came back out into the storm and told him I needed another room. The extra twenty I slipped him probably helped with that. So now I'm one door down from Adena, thinking about whether I really could do this job without lying. Every. Single. Day.
I check my watch—2:47.
The rain's been steady for hours, turning the parking lot into a patchwork of puddles that reflect the flickering neon of the motel sign. I watch the water stream down the window, my mind refusing to settle. A car pulls in. A door slams.
I'm on my feet before I've fully processed it. The curtain's already cracked—old habit—and I ease it open another inch.
A figure stands outside Adena's door. Male, average height, hood pulled low.
My heart hammers a jagged rhythm against my ribs. It’s them. The crew from the highway. They didn't wait for morning. They’re here to finish what they started, and they’re going for the softest target first. They’re going for her.
I'm out my door before the thought's finished forming, gun already in my hand. Rain hits me like a wall, soaking through my shirt in seconds.
He's still at Adena's door, hand on the knob now, twisting it.
Not on my watch. The undercover lie is gone, replaced by a cold, vibrating instinct. If he gets that door open, Adena’s a memory. I don’t see a man; I see a threat that needs to be neutralized before it can breathe. I’m not law enforcement anymore—I’m a blunt instrument.
I don't announce myself, just grab him by the back of his hood and slam him face-first into the door. He goes down hard, crying out, and I'm on him before he can recover. Knee in his spine, gun pressed to the base of his skull.
"Don't move." My voice doesn't sound like mine. "Don't even breathe."
"Please—I didn't—"
I grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back. Rain streams into his open mouth. "Who sent you?"
"Nobody sent me! I'm just—"
I crack his face against the concrete—not hard enough to break anything, just hard enough to make the point. Blood mixes with rainwater, spreading pink across the walkway.
"Try again."
"I don't know what you want!" His voice is high, panicked. Good. Fear keeps people honest. "I'm looking for someone—"
"Who?"
"Crystal! I'm meeting Crystal—"
"Wrong." I press the barrel harder into his skull. My finger's on the trigger. The safety's off—has been since I left my room. "There's no Crystal here."
"Room eight—she said room eight—"
"You calling me a liar?"
"No! No, I just—she told me—"
I pull him up by his hair and slam him against the door again. He's sobbing now, hands scrabbling uselessly against the wood. Something dark rises in my chest. This is what happens to people who come for what's mine. This is what—
"Jagger!"
The door opens inward, and he stumbles forward. I barely catch him before we both go down. Adena's standing with her gun in her hand, eyes locked on mine.
"What are you doing?" Her voice is steady, but I can hear the tremor underneath.
"He was trying to get into your room."
"I wasn't!" The man's practically screaming now. "I'm looking for Crystal! Please, I just want—"
Adena assesses the man quickly and winces. "Jagger, he's looking for a working girl."
I stare at her. The words don't process right away. Everything's moving too fast and too slow all at once.
"You have the wrong motel," she says to him. "Go, and don't even think about calling the cops."
The man's shaking. Can't tell if it's from fear or cold or both. "The numbers—I couldn't see—I'm sorry—"
My grip on him loosens. Just slightly. The gun's still pressed against him, but my finger eases off the trigger.
"Get out of here." My voice sounds hollow. Distant. "Now."
He doesn't wait. He just scrambles away, slipping twice on the wet concrete before he climbs inside his car.
I'm drenched. Adena's still in the doorway, still watching me. "Go back to your room."
But I can't move. I stand there with the gun hanging at my side, rain washing the blood off the concrete, off my hands.
The adrenaline is curdling into something sick and heavy. I’m so paranoid, so used to violence, I looked at a terrified nobody and saw a kill shot.
Adena closes her eyes and whispers a prayer. When she reaches for my hand, my instinct is to pull away.
Instead, I let her lead me inside before I can do something worse.