Page 154 of Jax
I stopped in the doorway, letting the silence settle heavy, like the building itself was holding its breath. Outside, thunder rolled low across the sky—not warning, not mourning. Just a reminder.
For no one but myself, I thought:
Tonight, we got her back. Tonight, we hit them where it hurt.
But the truth? Success doesn’t end a war.
It only makes the next battle inevitable.
35
Jax
Dawn crawled in,low and reluctant, smearing gray across the warehouse lot like a half-erased chalk outline, just enough light to confirm what we already knew: the night had done damage. Not just to Violet. To all of us. But the wounds didn’t show up on our skin.
The storm had emptied itself before four o’clock, but the rain lingered in mist and drizzle, soaking into everything and thickening the air with the kind of weight that only settles after something violent. Not just wet, saturated.
Around me, the team moved with aftermath-fueled precision. Gloves peeled. Packs zipped. Weapons checked with the reverence of men not yet ready to disarm. Every sound was muffled; boots on wet gravel, Velcro pulling, breath rising as steam in the dense morning air. No one spoke. When you’ve killed beside someone, words lose their shine. Meaning lives in muscle memory and the choreography of being ready again.
Violet lay propped in the van, a Mylar blanket tucked tight around her, her body angled to help her breathe. Sully crouched beside her, drawn in close, like proximity alone might be enough to carry her pain. Deacon sat at her back, boot extended,gloves still on, gaze fixed on the soft thud of her pulse. He’d stabilized her, kept her from dropping into shock, and now he refused to let go.
She looked better, technically, but that wasn’t saying much. Her skin was the brittle color of old paper, lips dry, lashes clumped. Her wrists hung loose in her lap, emptied of all tension. Not unconscious. Just limp. Alert in that flickering way people are when they’re somewhere between fighting and fading. When Deacon handed her a bottle, she blinked once and barely curled her fingers around it.
She was alive. Awake. But I couldn’t find peace in it.
She was technically safe. The mission had worked, but the air didn’t ease. No exhale. No shift in weight. Just a waiting stillness, sharp and wrong, like the moment before a lie shatters or a shell lands. This was supposed to be the moment you exhaled. When your hands remembered they weren’t in crisis anymore. But mine hadn’t relaxed. Not once.
Carrick’s hand shifted on his strap, eyes still sweeping the perimeter like he expected something to break through. Sully didn’t move. Niko leaned against the van, gaze fixed on the fog rolling in as if it might decide to part and give us an answer. Even Quinn, never one to stand still once things wrapped, remained rooted where he was.
This wasn’t relief. Or resolution.
Whatever had started in that room hadn’t ended there. And whatever it was, it followed us out…and it was watching.
Suddenly, Carrick called out, voice low and tense. “Movement, nine o’clock.” We all immediately swung around in the direction he indicated, tensing for violence.
The sedan didn’t announce itself. It slid in quietly, deliberately, and with no urgency. But it moved like it belonged, and that alone made something behind my ribs cinch tight.It stopped clean, angled where it could take in the van, the warehouse, and the team standing between.
A man stepped out with the kind of gravity reserved for people who knew they’d be listened to when they spoke. His windbreaker tugged in the breeze, his hair was tousled, and steam curled from the coffee in his hand. His beard looked like it had argued with sleep and lost, but his eyes were sharp, alive, cataloguing everything the way cops do when they never quite clock out. The badge at his waist caught the light, and I let the tension in my chest drop a notch.
Quinn stepped forward. “Eddie?” His voice carried both recognition and caution. “What are you doing here?”
The man gave a small nod. “Caught some chatter on dispatch,” he said easily, voice low. “Was a few blocks out on a domestic. Thought I’d swing by, make sure you weren’t holding the bag alone.” He sipped his coffee and winced at the taste as he took in the scene before him. “Christ, Quinn. What the hell did you walk into?”
But there was no accusation in it. Just fatigue, and concern. His eyes swept the scene out of habit, lingering on the busted warehouse doors, then moving to Violet.
“That the girl they were talking about on the radio?” he asked, voice softening.
“Yeah,” Quinn said. “Alive. Thanks to them.” He motioned toward our group.
Eddie’s gaze flicked toward us, curious. “You gonna tell me who they are?”
“Private contractors,” Quinn answered evenly. “Trusted. Off-the-books, but good at what they do.”
That seemed to land. Eddie let out a long breath, then nodded. “Glad you had backup.” His attention settled back on Violet, and for the first time I saw something flicker behind histired eyes—concern, real and unguarded. “Kid looks like she’s been through hell.”
“She has,” Quinn said quietly.
Before more could be said, the second SUV rolled up, this one deliberate, official, headlights off but presence undeniable. The Chief stepped out before the engine cut, his coat pushing against the wind, boots finding dry ground without hesitation. He didn’t need to scan the scene. He already understood it.
