Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Jagger
I control the reflex to react when the metal door slams behind me, the echo ricocheting off concrete and corrugated steel.
Gravel crunches under approaching boots as the men who picked me up fan out, silent and efficient, their formation tightening the air around me.
They’ve brought me to the perfect place where screams die before they ever reach daylight.
Numbness starts to creep in as a voice slides out of the shadows—smooth, familiar, wrong. "Vegas suits you, hermano."
My stomach knots before my eyes find him.
Paco. Smoking a cigarette and eyeing me.
I keep my tone even. “You trying to take my spot? That what this is?"
He spreads his hands. "Things change. Marquez likes initiative."
"Does he?" I take a step forward. "Or are you confusing your own ambition with your ability?"
The grin tightens. He flicks the cigarette to the floor, grinds it under his boot. "You got a smart mouth for a man under suspicion."
"Suspicion of what?"
He lets the silence drag until it's a noose. "You tell me, Rourke. You think nobody's asking questions?"
I stare him down, heat rising in my chest. "If Marquez had questions, he'd ask me himself."
"Maybe he will." Paco circles, slow, lazy. "But first, I want some answers.”
The men shift. Ready. I don't flinch. I meet his eyes, fury edging my voice. "You lay one hand on me, Paco, you better pray Marquez wanted this."
He smirks. "Oh, I'm praying, amigo. Just not for you."
He nods once. A shadow moves. Knuckles crack.
The first hit lands across my ribs—sharp enough to steal my breath. Pain radiates down my side, but I keep my stance.
I force a laugh, rough and bitter. "You want to hit me? Do it yourself."
He stops, leaning in, eyes narrowing. "Three years I've watched you. Every shipment. Every move. And still you make mistakes."
I shrug, keeping my tone casual. "Depends on who's counting."
"Who's counting?" His laugh is low, dangerous. "I am. Looking real close at you. And that lady of yours."
Another hit—this time to my side. Not enough to drop me, but enough to remind me Paco’s been waiting a long time for this.
He steps closer, boots scraping concrete. "And her..." His voice drops. "You think she's going to survive if something happens to you?"
Heat spikes through me. Fingers clench. Jaw tight. Every muscle coiled.
"She'll survive," I say slowly.
Paco tilts his head. "Everyone in this world has a price. Everyone. And if she's attached to you... then she's part of the equation. You understand?"
The room narrows. My chest pounds. I could fight. Could take one of them down. But every instinct screams to keep my cool.
"Do your worst," I growl. "I have nothing to hide. Neither does Adena."
He backs up a step and curls his fist, his face twisting in pleasure as he swings. I brace for the jaw, but he adjusts at the last second and drives the punch straight into the stab wound on my shoulder.
Pain tears through me. White-hot. Blinding. I stagger under the force of it.
But I'm not thinking about the pain. Not the laughter bouncing off the walls. Not the rage building inside.
I'm thinking about that slight adjustment he made.
And why they're keeping me conscious.
Adena
I keep my stride easy as we make our way back toward the hotel, the Vegas heat pressing down on us. The bodyguard trails a few steps behind—close enough to monitor, far enough to blend in with the crowd.
We pass a cluster of street performers, tourists taking photos, the constant stream of people moving between casinos.
"I need to use the restroom," I say, not bothering to look back.
He grunts acknowledgment.
I veer toward the entrance of the nearest casino.
The blast of air conditioning hits as we step inside, slot machines ringing and chiming in an endless chorus.
I scan the floor and spot an older woman hunched over a machine, eyes fixed on the spinning reels, purse sitting open on the stool beside her with a phone half-visible inside.
I angle toward her row, slowing my pace, and let myself stumble slightly, catching the edge of her machine for balance.
Forgive me, Lord. This is an emergency.
"Oh, I'm so sorry—"
"It's fine, honey," she mutters, barely glancing up.
My hand dips into the purse. The phone slides into my palm and disappears into my jacket pocket. Two seconds. Clean. A skill Jake taught me that I wish I didn’t have to use.
I straighten, offer an apologetic smile, and keep moving toward the bathrooms. The door swings shut behind me. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, cracked tile beneath my feet, the muffled noise of the casino bleeding through the walls.
I pick the corner stall, lock it, and close the seat so I can perch on it. Thank the Lord Delilah taught me an emergency-call dodge—it won't free the phone permanently, but it'll buy me sixty seconds. I dial, fingers steady even as my pulse pounds in my ears.
Silas picks up immediately.
"I have about one minute," I whisper. "I'm in Vegas, they're pushing for me to marry Jagger, but they’ve just yanked him off the street."
There's a pause, then his voice comes back clipped and urgent. "I'll make it brief. This assignment is compromised."
My chest tightens. It's that bad.
"Is his cover intact?"
"As far as we know. Yours might not be. Lots of interest coming from NOLA in the last 48 hours. Someone is digging a little harder, tripping some of the safety nets Delilah set up around your legend.”
Before I can process that, he switches gears. "You disregarded my warning. I can only guess some ill-advised attempt to save Jagger Rourke is the reason why."
My cheeks flush as I press the phone closer. "You must have known they'd have killed him if I didn't come here."
A shadow moves under the door—the bodyguard's boots, pacing closer.
Silas sighs, sharp and frustrated. "You have thirty seconds left. I'm not going to spend it discussing why we're not having this conversation in person. He’s being interrogated as we speak."
My jaw clenches. "Why are they making such a big show of it?"
"I don't know for sure. Another test, maybe? I do know if he breaks, or gives you up to save himself…"
The words hit like ice water.
A fist thumps on the door.
I cover the mouthpiece. "Give me a second, already," I yell, keeping my voice sharp and annoyed.
"We’re trying to negotiate with the DEA," Silas says quickly, "they’re not happy we’re involved when I assured them we’d be on the sidelines. We’ll give you a diversion during the ceremony. Use it wisely."
I close my eyes and block out all sound apart from his voice.
“If, for some reason, we’re delayed, you cannot marry Jagger tonight. You do that, you’ll become evidence. Don’t do it even if they hold a gun to his head. Understand?”
Another thump. Louder. The door shakes on its hinges.
“Did Lucia make it to the mission?” I whisper.
Silas grunts. “She’s terrified, Adena. It took an hour for Jake and Sam to convince her she was safe. What happened?”
Before I can explain myself, the bathroom door opens, and a woman calls out. “Hello? A guy outside asked me to come see if Adena is okay? He said to say Valentina is waiting.”
Without a goodbye to Silas, I slide the phone into the next stall and pray that whatever is about to happen, God will give us the courage to face it.
Jagger
The next hit comes lower—kidney shot. My knees buckle, but I catch myself, breathing through clenched teeth. Paco circles, enjoying this. Taking his time.
"Funny thing about Adena." He nods, and another fist slams into my ribs. I grunt, doubling slightly. "We can't find a record of her. No digital footprint. No history. It's like she doesn't exist."
I straighten, forcing the words out. "She's that good."
Paco laughs, cold and sharp. "Maybe. Or maybe she's a rata. A fed. You bring a snake into our house, Rourke?"
"She's clean."
"Clean?" Another hit—this time my side again, same spot. The pain explodes, radiating outward. "Then why can't we find her? Why does she vanish every time we look?"
I force my voice steady. "Because she knows how to stay off the grid. That's why I chose her."
He leans in close, breath hot against my ear. "You chose her. Or did she choose you?"
My mind races. The options narrow, suffocating.
I can't win this.
Another blow—abdomen this time. My vision blurs. I stagger, catching myself on a workbench, oil smearing under my palm.
Paco grabs my shoulder—the wounded one—and squeezes. Pain shoots through me, white-hot. "Last chance, hermano. Who is she?"
The prayer that forms comes as much of as a surprise as the desire to purchase the cross did last night. Don’t let them see I’m not one of them.
Because this isn’t about me anymore. It’s about protecting Adena.
Like he’s been waiting for the opportunity, he draws his gun and presses the muzzle to my sternum, almost lazy. “You know what happens to liars in this crew, sí?” His smile widens. “But what happens to the ones they bring with them…” He tsks softly. “That’s worse.”
My pulse spikes. Keep the mask. Keep it steady.
“She’s loyal,” I grind out.
“That right?” He tilts his head, considering. “Because my guys? They’ve been looking for days.” He taps the gun lightly against my chest, rhythmic, mocking. “And you want to know what we finally found?”
I swallow hard. “What.”
“Nothing.” He steps closer, the barrel lifting to my collarbone, then my throat. “Not a trace. Not a traffic ticket, not a school record, not a single photo that isn’t conveniently blurry.” His smile is a blade. “You know who else looks like that? Informants. Undercover plants.”
Adena. Adena with her forged past, her too-clean slate, the skills that make her invaluable—and lethal if anyone guesses the truth. Adena who has no idea every second I’m in here is a countdown aimed straight at her head.
Paco’s eyes gleam. “Maybe we bring her here too.”
My chest locks. “You touch her, I’ll kill you slow. That’s a promise.”