8. JAX
JAX
“And so my first husband could never perform after nine pm...”
I grimaced and waved down the bartender for the third time in twenty minutes. Flying first class was supposed to be relaxing, but I was wound so tight, you’d think I’d smuggled a rod of cocaine up my ass.
We were barely three hours in. I’d set myself up on a padded stool at the bar, my hand itching near my pocket.
The briefcase had been empty, just as we’d suspected.
There was no question the fucker had the prototype on him in some capacity.
Short of an actual ass-smuggling situation (which I wasn’t ruling out), we were stuck.
And that meant Olivia was still in the game.
I’d come to drown my anger when Martha followed me from her private suite. She had a full queen-sized bed, which she made a point of telling me. Then she’d set up shop beside me and ordered a martini.
At least the liquor was good.
Better than my usual watering hole, with their cheap beer and paint-stripping vodka. Noah, my alias, was probably the kind of uptight prick who enjoyed olives in his drink. He probably liked the little fucking napkins.
“I bet you don’t have that problem,” Martha rambled on, all but swinging on her stool. “Young, virile man such as yourself.”
The bartender gave me an amused look as he topped up my drink. I’d been forced to move onto soda and lime, virgin, because my patience was already razor thin.
Killing this woman with a barstool would probably throw a wrench in the plan.
Fun to imagine, though.
My phone buzzed, and I answered it automatically, cutting off Martha mid-rant.
“What?”
“Easy, lad. Just checking in.”
I grunted, but my shoulders loosened at the familiar Scottish twang. Callum. Nothing ever got to him. He was as solid as a rock, stoic and gruff without ever being cruel.
“Everything sorted?” I asked him, mindful of the pink parasite attached to my side.
“Locked and loaded, Alpha.” He paused. “You sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“There is no going back. The lass will never forgive you.”
My fingers drummed restlessly on the bar. “I know.” I took a long drink, hoping to cool the heat brewing in my chest.
Cal and I discussed vague details until the connection grew patchy. I hung up and called Zola. She answered on the third ring, her voice tight with frustration.
I knew exactly who caused it. Nate.
“How is he?” I forced myself to ask. The words jammed up my throat.
Zola sighed. “Scooby is Scooby. A complete dumbass, like usual.” She hesitated. “Do you want to speak to him?”
“No.”
She didn’t push it. Not anymore. Nate was off-limits. He’d been part of my crew until he’d betrayed me during our last job. The rest of the hellraisers had forgiven him (except Madoc, who suggested using him as target practice), but I couldn’t. Not yet.
Call me a stubborn jackass, but family didn’t betray family.
“Why the long face, handsome?” A pink-taloned hand curled over my arm possessively.
Zola made a choking sound. “Um, who the hell is that?”
“Don’t ask.” I hung up before I could be bombarded with questions.
Martha gave me a kitten smile. Her eyes were smudged and glassy.
“You should go lie down,” I said, more a threat than a suggestion.
Her brow inched up in coy anticipation.
“Alone,” I emphasized. “Jesus, lady.”
She slipped off her barstool and wobbled. “I’ll come find you later, Noah. Don’t let me forget.”
I watched her stagger to the door of her suite and disappear with a wink. Finally alone, I shoved my knuckles into my eyes.
Over five hundred warm bodies on this plane and she had to single me out.
I’d be suspicious about it if it weren’t a common occurrence. Women chased me because they wanted the thrill of it. I wasn’t bring-home-to-the-parents guy. I wasn’t marriage-material guy. I was barely learn-his-name guy.
I was the roguishly attractive six-foot-two ex-con who’d bend you over the pool table. Or fuck you against the wall outside the bar. No feelings. No attachment.
That was my sweet spot.
As I picked at the wanky dish of olives, I thought about the last girl I’d fucked.
Or almost fucked. Olivia was a problem because she blurred the lines.
On the surface, she was like those girls at the bar, looking for a night off from their perfect little lives.
Had we met under normal circumstances, I would’ve fucked her and never thought about her again.
But the island hadn’t exactly been normal circumstances.
I’d learned who she was beneath the prissy princess act.
Stubborn, iron-willed, stupidly brave. The kind of girl who shrieked at the sight of a spider, but then threw herself into a hail of gunfire to protect her sister.
The girl who had everything—money, privilege, opportunity—and still chose to dance with thieves and crime bosses.
It was why I didn’t trust her. She didn’t make any sense.
Confusing, irritating, perfect problem.
A low chuckle beside me interrupted my thoughts.
Frowning, I glanced to my left. A bemused man in a dark green suit lifted his drink to me in salute.
He was a sophisticated prick, his dark hair combed back, not a shadow of facial hair on his sharp face.
I put him somewhere in his late thirties. His eyes were dark, almost black.
I faced forward, intent on ignoring him.
“Must be difficult having so many fans,” the man said, amused.
How long had this dude been watching me? Obviously long enough to have witnessed Martha practically give me a lap dance.
I rolled my neck and reached for my glass. “Somehow, I manage.”
I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Apparently, I hid my feelings too fucking well, because no one got the hint.
When the bartender went to top up my glass, I stopped him with a harsh: “Whiskey. Good shit.”
I reached into my pocket for my counterfeit credit card. Preacher had put a limit on it, and I was petty enough to spend every dollar.
But just as I went to swipe it, a pale hand snapped out and swiped a thick black card across the machine.
“On me,” the man said, sliding into the stool beside me.
I shot him a suspicious look. “Don’t tell me you’re also a fan.”
“I could be,” he said, slipping the card back into his suit pocket. “If I was, what exactly would I be a fan of?”
Was this guy flirting with me?
Jesus, I couldn’t catch a fucking break.
I wasn’t into dudes. Hard nope.
Except, well, maybe there was one dude, but he could hardly be considered a normal dude. He was something else. A whole league of his own.
“My restraint,” I said, bringing the glass to my lips and taking a huge gulp. “I’d say that’s pretty impressive right now.”
The burn scorched down my throat and settled in my chest. Just the way I liked it.
The man smiled. When he reached for his drink, I noticed the hint of ink on his wrist, hidden beneath his cuff. I did a double take. He didn’t strike me as the sort to hit up the local tattoo parlor.
Catching my eye, he chuckled. There was something unsettling about it.
“Ask me why I’m laughing,” he said, resting his elbow on the bar and facing me.
“Because I’m such a riot?” My fingers tightened around my glass.
His eyes flicked down, catching it.
“Restraint,” he mused. “I would’ve assumed it was the opposite. What is that famous American idiom? Shoot first, ask questions later?”
I didn’t bother masking my disbelief. Was this guy for real?
“You a lawyer?” I asked him. He sure as shit had the arrogance of one.
“Are you?” he asked mildly, like he didn’t care either way.
“Sure.”
He nodded with another slow creeping smile. His eyes never strayed from my face. It reminded me of Madoc, who saw everything, who knew me better than I knew myself.
I hated being so exposed.
I finished my drink and stood. “Good chat,” I grunted. I turned to leave just as the plane jolted. It made me stumble like a drunk donkey.
“You look unsteady,” the man observed. “You should sit back down.”
“Look, guy,” I said, no longer willing to play nice. “No offense, but you’re not my type.”
“What’s your type?”
I stared at him. Was he actually curious or just fucking with me? I suspected the latter.
“Blondes with great tits,” I said bluntly.
“Hmm.” He took another drink, considering me. “Are you sure?”
That itchy, overly exposed feeling struck me again. “The fuck are you implying?”
“Nothing. Just making conversation, Jax.”
My blood ran cold.
Jax.
How the fuck did he know my name?
The stranger continued to watch me, his ring finger tapping his glass mockingly. “Sit back down,” he said softly. It was no longer a suggestion.
I reclaimed the two steps between us and towered over him.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“You insult me.” He tapped his finger to his chest, over a shiny silver lapel pin. It was in the shape of a V.
My eyes snapped back to his face. A cold dread settled in my gut. I wanted to be wrong. I knew I wasn’t.
V for Viper.
Holy shit.
My brain slammed into hyperdrive. I took him in again, noting the coiled tension of his frame, the predatory keenness of his eyes. His fingers were long and careful, like a surgeon’s hands. Knowing what I did of his reputation, he’d certainly sliced up enough people in his lifetime.
With great effort, I unhinged my jaw and said: “We’ve never crossed paths before.”
“No, we haven’t,” he agreed. “You and your little Crows are low on the food chain. I don’t care much for thieves. It’s dishonest work.”
“Says the killer for hire.” I shot a quick look around the bar. At least seven witnesses, not including the bartender.
He didn’t bother disputing it. He knew what he was. The Vipers were another crew working under Dr.Z. They were ruthless assassins who used venom to incapacitate their victims before taking them apart. No one ever wanted to be on their radar.
My gut burned. The plane shuddered again, making me grip onto the bar.
At least, I hoped it was the plane shuddering.
My eyes shot to my empty drink.
“Relax,” he said, still watching me intently. “If I poisoned you, you wouldn’t be standing.”
I sneered. “Why else would you be here?”
“That’s up to you, Jax. Now sit. Don’t be rude.” The threat was soft and delicate. I bristled, hating the slithery sound of it. I sat heavily, tensed and ready to strike.
“Good. Now, let’s keep this clean. I don’t like mess.” He took another sip, his eyes unblinking above the rim. “You know exactly why I’m here. And you know what it means.”
“You want the bounty on my crew.”
“It is quite a sum,” he agreed. “Your death is worth more than your life. Rather poetic, no?”
My fists balled in my lap. “Let me guess. Dr. Z also wants the prototype.”
He nodded, smiling again. “He was outbid for it, and you know how that infuriates him. You were his best collectors, after all. He did not want for anything.”
Bile rose up my throat. I swallowed it down, burning with anger. “Then what are you waiting for? Why the fucking production?”
“As I said, Jax, what happens next is up to you. Dr. Z wants the prototype. He wants you to pay for what you did. But there is something else he wants even more.”
He lowered his glass with a soft ‘clink’. “I believe you know her.”
My heart stopped.
He couldn’t mean who I thought he meant. He couldn’t possibly be talking about Olivia.
The very idea of her being on Dr. Z’s radar made me murderous. My jaw clicked as I kept my fury from lashing out. I couldn’t stop the tremor that overtook me, my muscles itching to pummel him into the fucking carpet.
“Who?” I gritted out, playing dumb.
His eyes gleamed. He saw right through me. “The girl,” he said. At my stony expression, he added with malice: “You have no idea who she really is, do you?”
“Why would he want Olivia?”
“Ah. I can’t give away all the secrets. We’re just at the beginning. But if you don’t know who she is yet, you will soon.”
I considered forcing the answers out of him. I’d done it plenty of times in the past. But something in the way he moved, the way he held himself, made me reconsider.
He was too confident. He had the upper hand, even showing his cards. Which meant there was more at play.
He finished his drink and faced me fully. The fucking silver pin on his chest winked at me. I hated performative killers, and he was proving to be the worst one yet.
“Here is my proposition,” he said softly. “In just under six hours, we will be flying over the North Atlantic. There is a boat waiting for us on the border of Ireland. You will let me take the girl and the SKS. I won’t kill your crew. A fair trade.”
I barked a humorless laugh. There was nothing fair about it, and he knew it.
“Go fuck yourself,” I said, then nodded at the bartender when he topped up my drink again. The bartender didn’t linger, but the silence beside me was telling.
It was leverage.
“You said you don’t like mess,” I said after the bartender drifted out of ear shot. “You clearly don’t want witnesses. But if you touch us, we fight back. And it won’t be fucking clean.”
His jaw ticked.
I raised my glass in a sarcastic salute. “You need us to cooperate.”
“You overestimate your value.”
“You underestimate ours.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. Then he smiled again, and I imagined knocking out each one of those perfect teeth. “I am not concerned about witnesses.”
“Seems like you are.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “More bodies could be useful. You are familiar with my methods, yes?”
Venom. Fast acting and painful. A complete meltdown of the system.
The Viper leaned closer, his voice soft. “If you don’t comply, I will have no choice but to start killing off the remaining five hundred and sixty passengers.”
My pulse jumped, but I refused to show it.
I leaned just as close to him, so we were almost nose-to-nose. “What makes you think I give a fuck about those uptight lawyer pricks?”
His eyes gleamed. “You cared enough to rescue those girls on the island. You’re a bleeding heart, Jax. You make it so easy to reach in and pierce it.”
Slowly, he stood up, straightening his jacket. A grim conclusion to a deadly business meeting. “We will be taking the girl and the SKS.”
I also stood and pressed over him, satisfied when he had to look up to meet my eye.
“If you touch mine,” I growled. “I will skin you alive, snake.”
He clicked his tongue. “You shouldn’t corner a snake, Jax. You don’t want it to strike.” His finger jabbed into my chest, sharp like a blade. “I have many eyes. And they will be watching.”
Then he patted my chest and sauntered away without looking back. It took everything I had not to tackle him. Iron bled on my tongue.
Many eyes, he said. I am not alone, he didn’t say.
Hands shaking in rage, I reached for my phone and pressed call.
Zola answered cheerily: “Hey, Alph—”
“How many passengers checked into this flight? Exact number.”
“Why?”
“Just tell me.” My voice was like gravel. Zola knew better than to ask again.
“Five hundred and sixty-three passengers, including you.”
My eyes shuddered close.
“Alpha?”
It wasn’t a mistake. He was too fucking careful for that.
I will start killing off the remaining five hundred and sixty passengers.
Which meant someone was already dead.