Page 82 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

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 his tired 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.

Quinn moved to meet him. “She’s in the SUV,” he said. “Stable. Nothing critical.”

The Chief didn’t slow. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

Relief moved through the team in its own quiet way. Carrick stopped pacing. Sully shifted against the van. Even Niko’s shoulders eased by a fraction. The Chief wasn’t a man you had to doubt. He was the man you wanted showing up when the dust settled.

At the open SUV door, he finally paused. Violet lifted her gaze, sluggish but aware, exhaustion pulling heavy at her features. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. Just watched him with the wariness of someone too used to being moved like a piece on a board.

“Glad to see you’re alive and well, young lady.” He said, voice steady. Then, to Quinn and the team, “We’ll take her from here.”

Deacon, crouched at her side, didn’t bristle. He just set his hand against the blanket draped over her knees, a quiet anchor that spoke louder than protest. “She needs rest,” he said calmly. “Food. Fluids. You push her too fast, she’ll fold.”

“She’ll get what she needs,” the Chief assured. “We’ll see to it.”

And we believed him. Every one of us.

Violet stirred, her eyes drifting past Deacon and Sully until they found me. The connection lasted less than a second, but it landed hard. Not pleading. Not fear. Just the smallest question.

I stepped closer, voice low, words chosen with care. “They’re moving you now,” I told her. “Let them. You made it through the worst of it. That matters.”

Her nod was faint, more reflex than conviction. She rose slowly, step by step, her body remembering how even when her mind lagged behind. Sully adjusted the blanket around her shoulders with quiet care, and Deacon followed, steady as a shadow.

The Chief was a man of deadlines, of orders carried through, but not one of us doubted Violet was safe now. She’d be at our compound before nightfall, guarded, tended, and alive. And Stella would have her sister back.

I stayed where I was, rifle across my chest, watching her disappear into the vehicle. It wasn’t defeat. It wasn’t a loss. It was the price of the job, letting go when the mission was done, trusting the chain that came after.

And for once, I didn’t question it.

Eddie stayed off to the side, arms folded, jaw tight, his gaze moving without landing, cataloging everything without committing to a single frame. No one spoke. There was nothing left to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

He didn’t ask for permission before stepping away. He moved like someone who’d spent his life working the seams of broken systems, close enough to power to survive, far enough to keep his doubts intact. Still, his approach wasn’t reckless. It was measured. A balancing act between duty and doubt.

He drifted toward the Chief, his pace slow enough to imply respect, steady enough to challenge if necessary.

“If you need me in this, just say the word,” he said, voice low but steady.

“Whatever you’ve got going on, I can take a piece of it off your shoulders.

But I need to know what I’m stepping into first. Quinn said these guys are outside help you brought in off the books. What can you tell me about them?”

The Chief didn’t slow. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance back as far as I could tell.

He just kept walking. “If I wanted you to have that information,” the Chief said, voice smooth with practiced indifference, “you’d already have it.

” It wasn’t a threat. It didn’t need to be.

Some men controlled rooms with volume; he did it by not caring if you walked out.

Power, on him, was lacquered and subtle, already settled.

Eddie didn’t answer. He let the moment stretch just long enough to lodge his disapproval like a splinter.

Then he gave a tight nod, something between acknowledgment and warning, and stepped back, jaw flexing as he scanned the lot again, slower this time, like he was redrawing the map with new, unwanted variables.

Sully held his ground by the SUV where they’d placed Violet, still tethered to her with one hand braced and the other curled loose, like he thought his presence alone might offer her some peace.

Blood marked his cuff. Dirt streaked his jaw.

But he didn’t move. Carrick still stood near the warehouse, arms folded, the quiet edge of his stance more fatigue than peace.

Tension coiled beneath him like a storm waiting for an excuse.