Page 8

CHAPTER 8

JAX

“I think you’re both going to have to sit down and talk. Together.”

Every time I recall Brewer’s advice after our long and emotionally exhausting session, I cringe. Together isn’t a word I want to use in connection with Pharo. There’s nothing cohesive about us.

The idea of sitting down with him, having a civilized conversation? It’s laughable. Every time I think we’re on the verge of something resembling understanding, it all falls apart, usually in a tangle of insults, bad decisions, and too much damn history between us.

Take the other night, for example.

We’re like fire and gasoline—always at odds, always ready to explode. No amount of discussion is going to fix that. And honestly? I’m not sure I want it fixed. It’s easier when we’re just two people who know each other too well but don’t have to deal with the fallout of trying to get along.

But Brewer’s right. And I hate that. If we’re ever going to move forward, if we’re ever going to make any sense of the mess we’ve made of everything, it’s going to require something I can barely stand to think about.

It means talking.

My phone beeps with a message and I grab it, my vape between my teeth, taking a hit as I pull up the Bitches’ group chat. I roll my eyes at the video Nash posted of his kitten, Valor, sitting in the Humvee kiddie pay-per-ride outside of the grocery store. He takes that dumb cat everywhere like it's some kind of mascot. I can't even begin to understand it.

Closing out the chat, I scroll until I find Pharo’s number. I stare at the screen for a second, my thumb hovering over the keys. My heart doesn’t want to do this, but my head knows it’s overdue. I type out the message, something short, blunt, and to the point:

We need to talk when you get back. And no, I’m not buying you dinner!

I’d rather stick my hand down the garbage disposal than hit send, but I do it anyway. My finger hovers for a moment before pressing it, and then my stomach sinks watching the little "sent" notification pop up on the screen. There's no going back now.

I lean back, taking another hit from the vape, trying to shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at my insides.

Talking to Pharo? Hell, I’m not even sure where to begin. But I know it has to happen. Sooner or later. And, like it or not, it’s going to hurt.

Of course, I don’t hear back right away. I wasn’t expecting to. Maybe a small part of me thought he might see my name on the screen and jump, from curiosity or something else. But that part of me’s always been too hopeful, too na?ve. Pharo’s probably too busy offing bad guys to even glance at his phone.

Hell, maybe he’s not even that busy. Maybe he’s just avoiding me, which, honestly, I can’t blame him for. If I were him, I’d avoid me, too.

Okay, fine. He’s probably not a hitman. I’m, like, 87.6 percent sure he’s not. But what does that leave? Special Ops? Gun for hire? Every time I think I’ve got a handle on the mystery that is Pharo, I end up more confused than when I started.

But then there’s Rhett. I know he works at the airfield where Pharo flew out of. I watched his plane take off from the parking lot just this morning. And now I’m left wondering—when the hell did Pharo get his pilot’s license? It’s not like it’s a piece of information he’s volunteered.

I tap my fingers against the phone, staring at the screen, the unanswered message to Pharo staring back at me. What else don’t I know about him? What kind of life has he been leading that I’ve never bothered to ask about?

Maybe it’s time I got some answers, even if they come from the one person who probably knows less about Pharo than I do. But right now, any lead is better than nothing.

I pull up Rhett’s name and hit dial. When he answers, I can hear the hum of a small aircraft in the background, the sound buzzing through the phone like a constant reminder that I’m talking to someone who’s clearly a step closer to the truth than I am.

“Hello?”

“How often does Pharo fly out of your hangar?” I cut straight to the point, not in the mood for anything else.

“Oh, hey, Jax. How’s your day going? Mine, you ask? Peachy. I’m having a killer meatball sub for lunch. What about you?”

I roll my eyes, leaning back in my chair. “I’m not hungry. How often?” I repeat, my patience is starting to wear thin.

Rhett’s voice dips into a tone that tells me he knows this isn’t a friendly check-in. “Well, let’s see… Pharo? I don’t know. He pops in when he needs to. Maybe a couple times a month. Sometimes more. I’m not always here when he flies in or out. Why?”

It’s not the answer I was hoping for, but it's something. “What else?” I push, needing more. “How long has he been flying? Does he own a plane?” I’m not even sure why I’m asking all this. The more I know, the more tangled it feels. But I can’t stop myself.

Rhett pauses, a little longer than I like. “I don’t know much about his personal stuff, Jax. Just that he’s a damn good pilot. He’s got his shit together up there, that’s for sure. As for owning a plane—well, that’s not something I’ve ever asked him. He’s not exactly chatty when it comes to that kind of stuff. The one he uses is registered to a company called Greystone Security.”

Greystone Security? What kind of company just hands out small planes like door prizes to their employees? Great, now I’ve got even more questions swirling around in my head.

“Alright,” I mutter. “Thanks, Rhett. I’ll let you get back to that sub.”

Rhett chuckles. “Anytime, man. Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll be here, shoving these balls in my mouth.”

Christ. Ball jokes from the Bitches. How novel.

Time to get to work.

I move the mouse, bringing Cerberus to life. The hum of the computer fills the space around me, a sound that’s almost comforting in its predictability. I type Greystone Security into the search bar, watching the results flood the screen. Pages upon pages of links. Most of it’s corporate fluff, all polished PR crap designed to make them appear to be saving the world one secure facility at a time.

But I’m not here for that. I don’t care about the glossy surface. What I want to know is what’s behind it. What’s Greystone securing? Who’s behind it? What do they do when the cameras are off and the official reports are filed?

I scroll past the predictable sales pitch, clicking through until I find something a little less polished, a little more… real. A blog post, one buried under layers of sponsored content, gives me a sliver of insight. There are whispers, off-the-record comments about “black ops” and “classified clients” that make my skin crawl. That’s the part I need to focus on.

I dig deeper, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I start to piece things together. Greystone’s website is slick—too slick—and everything in the open is designed to distract, misdirect. But beneath that layer, I know there’s something dark. Something worth knowing. And I’ll find it.

This time, there’s no avoiding it.

As the screen fills with more layers of disjointed, fragmented info, I can feel the pieces of the puzzle starting to fit together—just barely. I’m close, but not quite there. The deeper I dive, the more I realize how carefully Greystone’s managed to cover their tracks. They’ve set up a web of false leads, clever misdirection to make anyone who comes snooping think it’s all above board.

Then, a new link catches my eye—one that doesn’t belong. It’s buried under pages of standard intel, with an innocuous name like “Operations Overview.” But there’s something in the back of my mind that tells me it’s different. The domain’s not part of their main website, and it doesn’t look like any of the other professional feeds I’ve seen.

My pulse quickens as I click it.

A password prompt pops up.

“Damn it,” I mutter to myself. They were expecting someone like me to dig. I’ve been around long enough to know the game.

I pull up my secure chat and reach out to the one person I know who will give me answers without asking too many questions.

Got a favor to ask.

Joey:

Of course you do.

Leaning back in the chair, eyes still locked on the screen in front of me, I hit the vape hard.

I need access to a server.

Joey:

So, access it. That’s what you do.

No shit, smartass.

Not that kind of server.

Joey:

You owe me.

Add it to my tab.

I feel the force of what I’m about to do sink in. Greystone’s not just a high-end security company. It’s something much darker and intricate, and if I’m not careful, digging too deep could put a target on my back. But I’m already too far in. The screen in front of me flickers as it loads, and my fingers hover over the keyboard, my mind racing with anticipation. Then, the pointer on my screen moves of its own accord, as if guided by an invisible hand. I don’t need to look to know it’s Joey. He’s the only one I’d ever allow access to my systems—trusted beyond reason, even when it comes to these kinds of dirty, high-risk jobs.

I lean back in my chair and wait for him to do his thing.

A chat box pops up on the screen, blinking with Joey’s username.

Joey:

Got you covered. You’re searching for the Greystone Project files, right?

Yeah. I need everything. The real stuff. Not the PR bullshit.

The cursor pauses for a moment before his reply comes through.

Joey:

Give me a second. They’ve got a decent firewall. I’ll need to crack it open.

I watch the screen closely as his work starts. Lines of code flash across the screen, each one another step closer to what I need. It’s like watching a master at work, precise, methodical, no wasted movement.

Joey:

Alright, I’m in. Looks like there’s a whole network of files, hidden in plain sight. Someone went to great lengths to bury these.

The tension in my chest tightens as I lean in, staring at the glowing screen. I don’t know who Greystone is working for, but I’m getting closer. I can feel it in my gut, the familiar buzz of danger.

What else?

There’s another pause, longer this time. I can almost hear Joey’s fingers tapping on the keys, the silence stretching between us.

Joey:

Shit… I’ve got something. Classified op details. This isn’t just about security. They’ve got contracts tied to military-grade operations. It’s black ops. Private military contractors. Some of this is… off the grid. But it goes deeper than that.

I feel my pulse spike. This is the kind of information that’s dangerous to know. The kind that could get a person killed. But I’ve come too far now to back off.

Keep going.

Joey:

I’m pulling some more details… Hold on. This is the kind of shit you don’t want to mess with, Jax. These people are playing a whole different game. You sure you want to go down this rabbit hole?

I take a deep breath, my grip tightening on the edge of my desk. I know where this path leads, and I know the cost. But I can’t stop now. What if Pharo’s in over his head? The fuck has he gotten himself into?

I don’t have a choice. Keep going.

Joey:

Alright, here we go… I’ve got names. Operations. High-value targets. Blacklisted missions. This isn’t just another corporate scam, Jax. This is heavy. Real heavy.

Fuck. I can feel the walls closing in. The deeper I go, the harder it will be to get out.

I take a deep breath and sit back, letting the information settle. I’ve crossed a line now. There’s no going back. Not after this.

Send it all to me. And get out of there. Now.

I don’t wait for his reply. The screen blinks for a second before the files start downloading, every second feeling like a countdown to something I can’t control anymore.

I’m in too deep.

Pharo’s in too deep.

Joey:

I was never here. Peace out.

Joey who?

Joey:

If the feds come knocking, be a good friend and hack a bank for my bail money.

If the feds come knocking, there won’t be any bail, my friend. Peace out.

It takes two days to go through all the info. My eyes are bleary from staring at the screen for hours on end, the data swirling in my head like a storm I can’t control. Still no word from Pharo. I’ve been checking my phone obsessively, but there’s nothing. No response to my message, no sign that he even saw it.

I finally drag myself away from the desk, my muscles stiff from sitting too long. I stumble into the bathroom, wincing at the sharp ache in my lower back. The fluorescent lights hum above, casting an unforgiving glow on my reflection in the mirror. I stop short, frozen by the sight.

Hollow eyes. Dark circles beneath them that only seem to deepen by the second. My hair, normally under control, stands on end like I’ve been electrocuted, and the unkempt mess of it makes me look like I’ve been living out of a bag for weeks. My lips are cracked, dry, and peeling, and my complexion has taken on that sickly pale tint, like I haven’t seen daylight in a month.

I look like a tweaker coming off a three-day bender.

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, though it’s more out of frustration than amusement. This isn’t me. This isn’t how I operate. But I can’t shake the gnawing feeling in my gut—the questions that still hang unanswered. Greystone, Pharo, what’s really going on with him, and why the hell hasn’t he checked in?

I reach for the sink, splashing cold water on my face to clear the fog, but it doesn’t help. My mind is still racing, chasing after threads of information that don’t connect. I scrub at my face and glance back at the mirror, voicing the question nagging at me hardest.

What if Pharo’s not okay?