Chapter 13
Thirteen
Adena
The TSA line snakes through roped queues. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a harsh, unflattering glow. Travelers shuffle forward—businessmen in wrinkled suits, families with crying toddlers, college kids with oversized backpacks.
The agent at the document check takes one look at Jagger and flags him for additional screening.
Not surprising. He looks like a sleep-deprived drifter who’s been living rough for a week—dark circles under his eyes, three days of stubble, a thousand-yard stare that screams either trauma or trouble.
“Do either of you have any weapons to declare?” the agent asks, his tone already on edge.
“Yes,” Jagger says. “Handgun. Registered and permitted.”
“Me too,” I add. “Beretta. Also registered.”
The agent examines both sets of paperwork—carry permits, registrations under our cover names. Everything of mine is legitimate. And I know Jagger’s will be, too.
But he still calls over a supervisor.
Around us, the security line keeps moving—shoes in bins, laptops out, belts off. The X-ray machine’s conveyor belt hums steadily. Someone’s phone keeps beeping, setting off a secondary alarm.
Jagger stands perfectly still, hands visible, posture nonthreatening—professional. But I can see the tension radiating through his shoulders, the way his jaw keeps clenching.
I can’t stop thinking about how he’s lived a lie for three years straight.
Not just the work, but the friendships he must have made.
Three years of memories. I never considered that some of them would be good—funny, even. That the cover would have room for that.
Maybe that’s how he survives it: those moments where the pressure eases just enough to breathe.
But I still don’t understand the Bible tucked into my carry-on—why he bought it without comment, like it was obvious, like it was necessary.
I knew I should say no. Every practical instinct told me to refuse it, but the refusal wouldn’t come, so I took it for what it was:
A recklessly wonderful gift.
The supervisor—a woman in her fifties with reading glasses on a chain—nods after reviewing the paperwork. “You’ll need to declare these at the ticket counter. They’ll tag them and store them in the hold.”
“Got it,” Jagger says.
We collect our documents and head back through the terminal. Jagger smothers a yawn, triggering mine.
At the airline counter, we fill out declaration forms under the watchful eye of a ticket agent who’s clearly done this a thousand times. She barely glances at us as she processes the paperwork, locks both weapons in approved cases, and affixes bright orange tags.
“Claim them at baggage in New Orleans,” she says, handing us our tickets. “Next.”
We move toward security again. Jagger’s jaw is tight, his movements stiff. He keeps glancing back toward the ticket counter like he can still see his gun disappearing into the system.
He looks like he just lost a part of himself. I know how he feels. I’m naked without Mercy.
Jagger sinks into a seat by the window, staring out at the tarmac. A baggage cart rolls past, trailing a line of luggage.
I sit beside him. “Tell me about the club we’re going to.”
He glances at me. “La Sombra Roja. The Red Shadow.”
“Should I bother checking online, or would that be pointless?”
He nods. “Pointless. No website, no listing, no social media.”
I process that. “So it’s exclusive or connected?”
“On paper, it’s a private supper club. Politicians shake hands with men they’ll never acknowledge in public. Celebrities go to be seen only by the right people.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “You get invited one of three ways.” Jagger ticks them off on his fingers.
“One: someone who already belongs invites you. That’s the only acceptable route for most people.
Two: you’ve done something valuable for someone powerful.
Three: your absence would be more conspicuous than your presence. ”
I frown. “And where do you fit in?”
“I’m important enough that not inviting me would send a message.” His eyes meet mine. “Once you’re in, there’s no membership card. You’re just… remembered. The ma?tre d’ greets you by name even if you never gave it.”
A cold chill snakes down my spine.
“One more thing,” Jagger says quietly. “At La Sombra Roja, no one argues. No one raises their voice. Confrontation, anger—that gets finished outside.” His expression is grim. “Inside those walls, everything is polite. Civilized. Controlled.”
“So, no backtalking,” I say.
“You do that tonight,” he says, looking out the window again, “the same people who smile at you over drinks are the same ones who’ll have you killed before dessert.”
Jagger
The cab drops us at my building just after noon, and my legs feel like they’re dragging chains.
Adena—who somehow slept on the plane—follows me up the stairs in silence, her boots quiet on the concrete. I unlock the door. She crosses straight to the coffee table, sets the Bible down with a soft thud, then taps the cover twice.
Our eyes meet. She doesn't say anything, but the message is clear.
She picks up her helmet from the counter. "I need to pick up a dress for tonight."
"I’ll pay you back."
"Yeah, you will." She doesn't look back as she heads for the door and calls over her shoulder, "Get some rest, Jagger."
When the door clicks shut, I sink into the couch. Exhaustion pulls at me as I flip it open and scan the text, but my eyes won't focus, and in seconds I'm drifting, trying not to dream or think about how close I came to losing control last night.
Pounding on the door jerks me awake. I kick the Bible under the couch without thinking and pull my gun—safety off, finger on the trigger.
"Yo!"
I smother a curse. Paco. Just the welcome home I needed.
I exhale, lower the weapon, and unlock the door.
Paco pushes past me, agitated, pacing. "Return driver called. Says there's a bullet hole in the side of the truck."
Ice trickles down my back. "They didn't hit us."
"They did, hermano. Driver's side, just below the cargo bay door." His eyes are sharp, assessing, measuring my reaction. "You too distracted by your chica to notice?"
My mind races. I checked that truck. Three times. Twice at the motel before we left. Rechecked it at the warehouse before the crew started unloading. It was banged up, a few scrapes, but there was no bullet hole.
Which means either the driver's lying, or Paco is.
I meet his eyes. Hold steady. "There was no bullet hole."
"Driver says different."
"Then the driver's mistaken. Or lying." I don't blink. Don't look away.
Paco stops pacing. "I vouched for that driver."
The air in the room shifts. Tightens. Back down and I'm weak. Distracted. Push back and I'm challenging him, questioning his word to Marquez.
Either way could get me killed.
"There was no bullet hole when I signed off on that delivery. So either something happened after Memphis, or someone's got their facts wrong."
The silence stretches. One second. Two. Three.
Paco's jaw works. His fingers twitch—just barely—near his gun.
I don't move. Don't reach for mine. Instead, I hold his stare and let him see exactly what happens if he reaches.
The tension shifts as he glances at my grazed knuckles. "What happened to your hands?"
"Someone came sniffing around Adena. Needed to be taught some manners."
He laughs—but there's no humor in it now. Sharp. Testing. "She worth dying for, hermano? Because that's what Marquez is gonna think. That you're so busy protecting your woman, you didn't notice someone put a round in his truck."
"There. Was. No. Bullet hole." I take a step forward. Into his space. "You want to accuse me of something, Paco, say it plain."
For three seconds, maybe four, neither of us moves.
Then Paco smiles. "Let's go have a conversation with my driver. See whose story holds up."
"Let's."
He heads for the door. I grab my jacket, check my gun. My hands are steady but my pulse is hammering.
This is a test. Has to be. Paco or Marquez or both. Seeing if having Adena here is making me soft. Seeing if I'm still solid.
I glance back at the couch. At the Bible hidden underneath.
I'm glad Adena went shopping. She doesn't need to see what happens when you call a man a liar in this world.
She's seen enough of this side of me already.
Adena
I weave through the chaos in Jackson Square to a coffee cart, order black coffee, and position myself where Jake can see me.
When his eyes shift to me, I smile. "You know 'I'll Be Seeing You'?"
He gives me the slightest of bobs. "Sorry, love, just about to take a break. But I'll be back in ten."
"Too bad," I say before turning on my heel, walking at a leisurely pace so he can follow.
I head down Decatur Street, past the shops selling hot sauce and voodoo dolls and beads, and find the boutique that sells overpriced designer clothing.
Ten minutes later, Jake walks in. Rather than head directly toward me, he starts at the other end of the store, spending time looking at men's watches before he drifts to the rack next to mine.
He doesn't look at me as he speaks. "You're giving Silas an ulcer, you know."
A smile tweaks at the corner of my mouth. "You can tell him and everyone else that I'm fine."
"Define fine for me and I'd be happy to pass on the message."
As briefly as I can, I give him the information that will keep both Hightower and the DEA happy.
I pull a red dress off the rack. Too short, too bright.
Jake's amusement is evident in his voice. "Never wore anything like that when we were undercover."
I purposely fumble with the dress, dropping it on the floor. "That's because the last two times we were pretending to be sleep-deprived parents with fake babies."
He snorts, just barely, not loud enough for it to carry.
I stand again and smooth the dress back on the padded hanger. “I need another location to communicate. I can’t keep coming here.”
“I’ll pass that on,” he mumbles.
Jake shifts behind me, fast enough that all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.