Chapter 12
Twelve
Adena
Jagger hasn’t spoken since we left the motel—not even a casual comment to make the silence feel normal. He just drives, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady but tense on the wheel.
He looks exactly how he’s trained to look: just a man trying to convince himself that he didn’t make a mistake.
I check that Mercy is where I left her and breathe out my third silent prayer of the morning.
If the truck is wired for sound, anything spoken out loud becomes evidence, and what happened at the motel isn’t something either of us can afford to acknowledge.
Every time I blink, I see him in the rain last night—breathing hard, soaked, shaking with adrenaline he couldn’t burn off.
He’d been somewhere else entirely, somewhere he didn’t come back from until he’d heard my voice.
The rain lightens, revealing a long line of taillights far ahead, barely visible through the mist.
It can mean only one thing.
Jagger straightens in the seat, posture tightening like a man preparing for his name to be called.
“Checkpoint,” I say lightly.
He doesn’t answer.
But his hand—the one not on the wheel—clenches once against his thigh, subtle and fast.
I swallow hard and keep my voice neutral.
“Should be routine.”
But nothing about this feels routine.
Especially not the man sitting next to me.
The line moves forward. One vehicle ahead of us now—a minivan getting waved through.
Jagger's scanning everything: the officers, the dogs. The secondary inspection area is to the right. His right hand keeps twitching toward his side.
"Jagger," I keep my voice low. "Look at me."
He doesn't.
"Jagger."
His eyes flick to mine for half a second, and my blood runs cold.
He's not here—not really. He's somewhere else, somewhere dark where everyone's a threat, and the only way out is violence.
I stutter a hasty prayer as a female trooper looks at the truck and squints at Jagger.
God… please restrain whatever evil has its claws in him. Clear his judgment. Keep him from hurting the wrong person—or himself. And if I’m meant to help, show me how without making things worse. Amen.
The trooper pauses, adjusts her belt, then approaches, hand resting casually near her sidearm. Jagger rolls down the window.
"Morning," she says. "License and registration."
Jagger hands them over. His smile is easy, practiced. "Morning, officer. Beautiful day for a checkpoint."
The trooper's eyebrow raises slightly. "Where are you headed?"
"Memphis. Pharmaceutical delivery." He nods toward the back. "Got the manifest if you need it."
She studies the documents and looks at me.
"Ma'am."
I give her my warmest smile. "Hi. Please tell me this won't take long. We're already behind schedule."
"Depends." She hands the papers back. "What's your cargo?"
"Prescription meds, over-the-counter supplies, all sealed and manifested."
She pauses, studies Jagger's face.
"Step out of the vehicle, please."
The air leaves my lungs, but my smile doesn’t falter. I keep moving, keep my steps even as we descend onto wet pavement that smells like rain and hot rubber.
An older officer approaches, clipboard tucked under one arm. His gaze is practiced, thorough, sliding over us the way men do when they’re deciding what matters and what doesn’t.
Jagger shifts beside me—not abrupt, not obvious—but enough that he has the whole scene in his line of sight: the lake, the road, the officers, me. His weight rolls forward onto the balls of his feet, ready in a way that makes my chest tighten.
Don’t. Please don’t.
“This a regular route for you?” the officer asks.
“First time,” Jagger replies easily. Too easily. “Usually run local out of Baton Rouge. Dispatch kicked this one over last minute.”
The officer nods, scribbles something down. The pen scratches louder than it should. “Hear about any trouble on the highway yesterday?”
Jagger freezes. He doesn't even finish his breath. I wait for him to say something, but the silence just keeps stretching out.
“You mean the shooting?” I cut in, forcing concern into my voice, leaning into the role. “We heard about it at a diner last night. It sounded awful. Was anyone hurt?”
The officer’s attention shifts to me. His eyes linger, measuring. “Not that we know of. You didn’t see anything?”
“The storm was loud,” I say. “Hard to tell what was what.”
Behind us, a sharp command breaks the air.
The K-9 moves in.
The German Shepherd’s nose drops to the pavement, working methodically, tail steady, focus absolute. It starts at the front tire, sniffing deep, then traces the seam along the door. The handler gives it slack, saying nothing, letting the dog dictate the pace.
My pulse crawls into my throat.
The dog pauses at the cargo bay. Sniffs once. Twice. Longer this time.
Jagger’s gaze locks on the animal. I can feel the tension radiating off him, a hum just beneath the skin. His hand shifts—barely—toward his back before discipline clamps down and stills it. His jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath the skin.
I step closer, close enough that our arms brush, close enough to anchor him.
He flinches anyway.
The dog circles the cargo bay again, slower now, nose pressed hard to the latch. It inhales, deep and searching, as if tasting the air for secrets.
My lungs burn. I realize I’ve stopped breathing.
The handler watches, unreadable.
For a long moment, nothing happens.
Then the Shepherd moves on.
No bark. No sit. No alert.
The handler exhales, gives a short nod to the troopers.
The female officer steps back. “You’re clear.”
Relief barely has time to register before the older officer adds, casual as an afterthought, “You two traveling alone the whole way?”
“Yes, sir,” Jagger answers without hesitation.
The officer studies him. Then me. His gaze lingers just long enough to make my skin prickle.
“All right,” he says finally. “Drive safe.”
“Thank you, officer,” Jagger replies, already moving.
Inside the cab, his posture loosens, shoulders settling into something that looks like calm. But I see the truth anyway—the muscle still ticking in his jaw, the tightness he hasn’t let go of yet.
“Next stop, Memphis,” he says.
His voice sounds hollow.
He looks composed enough for any trooper to believe him.
But not for me.
Not when I can still feel the storm moving inside him.
We may have passed through the checkpoint unscathed.
But Jagger didn’t.
He’s barely surviving each moment.
Jagger
I should feel relief when the warehouse comes into view—the distribution center is a nondescript building on the outskirts of Memphis: gray concrete, roll-up doors, chain-link fence. Professional. Clean. Exactly the kind of place that moves legitimate pharmaceutical supplies.
Instead, all I feel is the echo of last night and the checkpoint tightening around my ribs like a belt.
I back the truck into dock three, almost misjudge the angle—something I never do—and kill the engine. I sit there for one extra beat, fingers still wrapped around the gearshift like I’m waiting for the world to lurch sideways again.
A man in a hi-vis vest waves us forward, clipboard in hand, all business.
“Delivery from Baton Rouge?”
“That’s us.” I climb down from the cab, every muscle protesting. I’m running on fumes and adrenaline, both wearing thin. My eyes sweep the lot automatically—habit I can’t switch off—even though this is supposed to be the “safe” part of the job.
He checks the manifest, compares it to his clipboard. “We’ll need to verify the seals.”
“Go ahead.”
Adena joins me at the back of the truck. She looks tired—dynamite, but tired—and she’s watching me carefully, like she’s trying to read what’s going on under my skin without alerting anyone that she’s doing it.
The warehouse crew makes quick work of it, checking seals, scanning barcodes, offloading crates onto pallets. Fifteen minutes, start to finish.
The supervisor signs off on the delivery. His eyes linger on me a second too long, just enough for my instincts to bristle. “You’re all set. Safe trip back.”
I bob my head and stalk toward the truck. “Want to grab some breakfast before we meet the return driver?”
Marquez is too smart to send the truck back empty or with me behind the wheel again. Running the same route twice draws attention. The truck’s picking up a legitimate backhaul—medical equipment headed to Baton Rouge. Different driver. Different manifest. Clean.
She nods, covering a yawn. “When does our flight leave?” Before I can answer, my phone trills. Marquez. I step away from the warehouse, boots crunching on gravel, and put my back to a rusted container.
“Just signed off on the delivery,” I say.
“Good. Any more problems?”
I scan the yard out of habit. Empty forklifts. A security light buzzing overhead. “Smooth run. Checkpoint outside Memphis, but nothing unusual.”
“You didn’t see the Jackson crew again?”
“Nothing. Not surprising. Adena shot out their tires.”
His laugh cracks like a whip. “Your flight leaves at eleven. And Jagger?” His voice drops.
I straighten, fingers tightening around the phone.
“Bring Adena to the club tonight. Eight o’clock. New supplier from Juárez wants to expand into prescription ops. I want to reward her good work.”
My jaw tightens. I force it loose before I speak. “We’ll be there.”
“Don’t be late.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there with the phone still against my ear, even though the line is dead. Adena’s watching me from beside the truck, the question in her eyes clear.
“We’re going to dinner tonight. Black tie. Marquez wants us at eight.”
She snorts a humorless laugh. “Fun.”
“Food?” I ask.
She nods. “And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
With the heat rising at our backs, we wait until Marquez’s return driver—a kid who can’t be more than twenty-two—arrives to take the truck. Then I hail a cab and give the driver an address on South Main.
The Arcade is all chrome and red vinyl—too bright, too exposed. I take the corner booth, back to the wall, a clear view of both entrances. Every time the door opens, my spine tightens, a reflex I don’t bother fighting, like I’m waiting for the wrong face to walk in—or the right one.
Adena orders pancakes with fruit. I get bacon, eggs, toast, hash browns. One day I’ll start treating my body better.
If I make it out.
In case she wants to talk about anything too real, I start a conversation.
“This place has been here since 1919,” I say. “Musicians used to hit it after shows on Beale Street.”
She glances at the black-and-white photos. “You come here a lot?”
“If I have to drive, yeah.”
I track two construction guys entering—no threat. Still, every noise pulls my attention like a magnet I can’t switch off.
I keep the conversation light, telling her about the time Paco and I got stuck near Graceland with a truckload of prescription inventory because a tour bus jackknifed trying to turn around.
Forty-five minutes of heat, Elvis music blasting out of open windows, and a guy in a rhinestone jumpsuit directing traffic like it was perfectly normal.
She laughs in all the right places, but there’s a trace of disapproval that tells me she’s humoring me.
When she’s finished her pancakes and has used the restroom, I drop cash for the meal, plus a tip for our server, and we exit with plenty of time to spare.
Outside, Beale Street is waking up—shop owners sweeping sidewalks, a few tourists with cameras.
I keep us on main streets. Public. Visible. Faces blur past, but I catalog them anyway. Old habits wrap around me like armor I can’t remove.
Adena slows in front of a record store… then shifts toward the narrow shop next door.
A bookstore.
“Hold up,” she says. “I want to browse.”
I check my watch. “You have ten minutes.”
I don’t like standing still with my back exposed, and the longer I loiter, the easier I am to log.
At twelve minutes, I go looking.
I find her in a narrow aisle, nose in an ancient book. I position myself where I can see the door and the old man behind the counter.
Someone walks in—a shadow across the doorway—and my body reacts before my brain catches up, shifting just enough to block Adena from view. Just a teenager. Still, my pulse spikes.
Whatever it is she’s reading, she’s fully absorbed in it. And when she notices me watching her, she closes the book too gently for someone pretending not to care.
The old man clears his throat. “Half off all Bibles today.”
A Bible. Right. Of course. She’s a church girl. And she wasn’t allowed to bring hers.
Before I can think of the danger, I jerk my chin toward the book. “We’ll take it.”
She looks up at me, fingers tightening on the book, eyes searching my face like she’s waiting for the catch.
The old man takes it from her fingers and bags it without comment. We breeze out, me twenty bucks lighter, her holding something that could get us killed if Marquez’s men ever search our bags.
Outside, she turns and smiles.
Not her polished smile.
Her real one.
Sweet. Reserved. Almost shy.
And for one quiet second, I forget we’re standing in enemy territory. Forget last night. Forget the checkpoint.
Forget everything except the fear that if Marquez ever sees that softness in her, he’ll weaponize it against me.
Or worse—against her.