Page 12 of Jax
“Tell me I won’t need bail money,” he rumbled.
“Depends on how allergic the marshals are to curiosity.”
He lifted his gaze, but his eyes didn’t flicker. Not once. Kane didn’t posture; he processed. After a second, he raised one brow. “You sure?”
“Positive.” I tapped the tablet and slid it to him, then paced once across the rug, glasses sliding lower on my nose as I raked a hand through my hair. “I went in quiet. Breached DOJ archives.” My lips twisted. “Still tripped a wire. Silent ping. Marshals’ll know somebody touched her file.”
Kane watched me steadily for a beat, his expression unreadable. Likely wondering when the fuck I’d gotten so damn sloppy.
Then his head ducked, and he read fast, eyes flicking over my bullet list—holes I’d fix, patches I’d lay, and covers I’d thicken until they were bulletproof. “You can shore it?”
“Yeah.” My mouth thinned. “But if the fed who rubber-stamped this mess wants to keep stamping, she shouldn’t be left alone in a shitbox apartment with a deadbolt I could open with a butter knife and two minutes. If any of the partners catch wind she’s here…” My jaw clenched. “They’ll finish it.”
Kane rubbed a thumb along his beard, eyes narrowing. “And now the marshals know we’re looking.”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched, broken only by the hum of his monitor fans.
Finally, Kane leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on me. “We keep her close. No one outside us hears this until we decide otherwise.”
I nodded once, the tight coil in my chest easing half an inch.
“We’ll move her if we have to,” he grunted. Then he cut me a sharp look. The kind that measured. He was gauging me the way he did every brother when a line in the sand wasn’t about territory or money but about a woman.
We’d been brothers long enough that I knew what he was asking without words. If this wasn’t just about her being in WITSEC anymore. Whether this was club caution—or something else.
Eventually, he asked, “How close are you planning to stand, Jax?”
I didn’t flinch. “Close.”
Silence stretched again, heavy as an engine block. Then a ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
“Figured.” He leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. “I hired her because she’s good. But if this turns hot, she’s not just an employee—she’s under our protection.”
It was a question and a promise all at once.
“Agreed,” I muttered.
The desk phone buzzed. Kane hit the speaker. “Yeah.”
It was Rev, who was at the gate shack this morning, rotating watch. His voice came through, low and bored, as if nothing surprised him, because it was rare that anything did. “Two suits at the gate. Marshals. Want a word. Credentials say Callahan and Gomez.”
I glanced at Kane and saw the decision land. He didn’t blink. “Send an officer to walk them to my office.”
“Copy.” The line clicked off.
I rolled my neck, the crack loud in the quiet room, and felt the stiffness in my gut tighten.
We didn’t wait long before we heard footsteps in the hall. Their knock was polite, the way cops made it, calculated to make civilians feel small. Then the door opened, and two men in suits stepped in.
Nitro stood behind them, but when Kane lifted his chin, Nitro pivoted and disappeared down the hall.
The first one in a suit was in his mid-thirties, tall, broad-shouldered, and with a square jaw carved, as if he practiced in the mirror. The badge clipped to his belt flashed when he moved. The second was older, leaner, with tired eyes and posture that said he’d seen enough bitter endings to stop believing in clean ones.
“Boys,” Kane drawled, leaning back in his chair again, every inch the calm predator. “To what do we owe this visit?”
“Helix Callahan,” the first one introduced himself without offering a hand he knew wouldn’t be taken. “Marshal Service.We’d like to discuss a matter involving one of your employees. Lark Whittaker.”
