Page 54 of Reckless: Corruption

“Obviously.” She doesn’t even look up. “Also strategic manipulation. Very effective. Much predictable response patterns.”

I should be angry, but there’s something almost comforting about Mona’s particular brand of manipulation—it’s so transparent in its calculations that it circles back around to honesty.

“Can you even ride?” Jinx asks, his gaze clinical as he assesses my still-shaky stance.

In answer, I grab the jacket and shrug it on. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re ready to move. Mona’s provided us with enough gear to outfit a small tactical team—comms, security bypass tech, and what appears to be a disturbingly compact EMP device “for emergencies, very selective targeting, minimal collateral damage potential.”

“Your beta’s vitals will be monitored continuously,” she assures us, pressing one final injector into my hand. “This is my latest formulation. Very precise dosage. Much improved cognitiv?—”

“If you sayveryormuchone more time, I’m stealing all your candy,” I warn, but the threat lacks heat.

A small, genuine smile quirks her lips. “Acceptable negotiation tactic. Well-defined boundaries. I approve.” She checks her watch. “Twenty-two minutes until optimal infiltration window. Timing is critical.”

As we head for the garage, I catch a glimpse of Ryker at the top of the stairs, his posture tense but resigned. Our eyes meet briefly, and something passes between us—acknowledgment, maybe. Trust, perhaps. He knows I’m doing this for Finn, for all of them. With a sharp nod, he disappears back into the shadows, returning to his omega who needs him more than we do right now.

Jinx’s arm slides around my waist as we continue toward the garage, his support hidden beneath casual contact. The gesture speaks volumes about how obvious my weakness must be. Still, I lean into his warmth, drawing strength from his steady presence.

The Ducati waits like a predator, sleek black lines promising speed and danger. Jinx swings a leg over, patting the seat behind him. “Hold tight, Glitch.”

I settle against him, arms circling his waist, my body remembering the last time we rode together—before everything went to hell, before Sterling Labs, before the virus.

As the engine roars to life, Jinx glances back, cherry tobacco and leather enveloping me. “Ready to raise some hell?”

For the first time in days, I feel something like my old self stirring beneath the virus’s weight. “Born ready.”

We tear into the night, the wind against my face both punishment and liberation. Each curve in the road tests my strength, forcing me to cling tighter to Jinx’s solid form. Through the comm link, Mona’s voice provides clinically precise directions, her usual chaos suspended for the sake of mission efficiency.

“Security patrol passes the east entrance in approximately seventy-three seconds,” she informs us as we approach the facility. “Maintain visual distancing until confirmation of rotation completion.”

The building rises from coastal darkness—a sleek, modern structure that screams “nothing suspicious happening here” in that way that immediately reads as “definitely suspicious things happening here” to anyone with sense. Unlike Sterling Labs’ main facility, this one masquerades as a pharmaceutical research center, complete with legitimate-looking branding.

“Approaching drop point,” Jinx murmurs as he cuts the engine, letting momentum carry us the final distance. The bikerolls silently into the shadows of a maintenance shed, exactly where Mona’s schematics indicated a blind spot in the security coverage.

“Security loop established,” Mona confirms through our earpieces. “Camera feed replaced with static recording. Very precise timing. Much technological finesse.”

I dismount carefully, testing my balance. The virus still simmers in my blood, but Mona’s latest injection has dulled its edges, leaving me functional if not quite at full strength. My enhanced beta senses pick up subtle details I’d normally miss—the distinct cadence of each guard’s footsteps, the slight ozone tang of the security systems, the barely perceptible hum of electronics behind concrete walls.

“Still with me?” Jinx’s hand finds mine in darkness, a grounding point.

“Always.” The word slips out before I can think better of it. Something shifts in his expression, but before he can respond, Mona’s voice cuts through.

“Biometric access panel approaching optimal vulnerability window. Proceed to south entrance. Maintain silence protocols.”

We move like shadows, years of training merging into perfect synchronization. My hacking instincts match his predatory grace, each of us anticipating the other’s movements without words. When we reach the access panel, I place my palm against the scanner before Jinx can stop me.

“Wait—” he starts, but the panel’s already turned green.

“Sterling genetics,” I explain, bitterness coloring the words. “One perk of being daddy’s little mistake.”

His fingers tighten around mine for a brief moment—silent support, shared rage—before we slip inside.

The interior is sterile white and chrome, identical to the main facility in its clinical coldness. We follow Mona’s directionsthrough eerily empty hallways, our footsteps echoing despite our caution.

“Where is everyone?” I whisper.

“Night shift operates at seventeen percent standard personnel,” Mona supplies. “Most research staff departed approximately ninety-seven minutes ago. Remaining security concentrates on primary access points.”

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