Page 137 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Remy ties off Damian's stitches with medical precision before shifting to diplomatic charm. "Now, about those delightful war crimes you mentioned—purely from a medical curiosity standpoint, you understand."

"Capture," I correct, feeling Jax tense beneath me. "Death's too quick."

Everyone stops working to stare. Asher actually laughs—a sharp bark before he winces.

"Twenty years. Now capture?" Cole's measured tone carries curiosity.

"Death ends suffering immediately." My hands keep loading bullets with mechanical precision. "I want him to understand what he's lost first. Like I did at six years old, watching my parents bleed out."

"Some of my methods for keeping people conscious aren't exactly legal," I add. "Hell, they're war crimes in twelve countries."

Damian's eyes actually light up through the pain. "Which twelve? And is it the Serbian technique or the Chechen pressure points?"

"Both," I confirm. "Plus a few things I learned in Morocco that technically violate the Geneva Convention."

"We literally dissolved three bodies last month," Cole points out while ice still pressed to his eye. "Legal isn't exactly our concern."

"Four bodies," Remy corrects cheerfully. "You're forgetting Cincinnati."

"That was self-defense dissolution," Xander argues while struggling with his sling.

"Is that a legal distinction?" I ask.

"No," everyone answers simultaneously.

Jax's arms tighten around me, his lips pressing against my shoulder. "That's my girl."

"Your girl's a sadist," Damian observes approvingly while pulling on a fresh shirt over his stitches.

"Perfect match then," Asher adds, cleaning blood from his sniper scope. "Jax has been calculating torture methods for three hours."

"I was calculating—fuck, the numbers won't stop—all the ways someone could make you scream without killing you. Blood loss rates and consciousness thresholds and—" Jax's rambling speeds up, his fingers tapping faster against my hip. "It's different when it's about keeping someone alive to hurt them more. The math gets complicated."

Remy grabs Xander's arm. "On three. One—" He jerks it hard, the pop audible as the shoulder resets.

"FUCK!" Xander's good hand slams the table. "You said on three!"

"I lied." Remy smiles sweetly while applying a better sling. "Now, Baltimore logistics while everyone bleeds attractively."

Cole pulls up warehouse schematics on the main screen, moving stiffly from his own injuries. "Three potential sites. We need simultaneous surveillance."

"Can't." Asher adjusts his position, favoring bruised ribs. "We're down three operators and half of us are held together with stitches and spite."

"Prague team lands in two hours," Cole continues, ice pack pressed to his eye while typing. "That gives us nine functional operators."

"Define functional," Xander gestures at his sling and Damian's blood-soaked bandages.

"Breathing and armed," Damian deadpans while testing his range of motion. Blood immediately seeps through the fresh shirt.

"Christ, sit down before you bleed out," Remy forces him back into the chair. "Some of us prefer our teammates alive."

I shift on Jax's lap to reach more ammunition, and his breath catches. His hands grip my hips, holding me still. "Stop moving like that unless you want me to embarrass myself in front of everyone."

"Your boy's breaking," Xander observes while struggling to load magazines one-handed. "More than usual, I mean."

"Statistically, teams operating with injuries have thirty-seven percent higher casualty rates," Jax starts rambling against my neck. "Add emotional compromise from recent losses and we're looking at—"

My hand covers his mouth. "No statistics. Just trust me."