Page 139 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"Your deeply disturbed way," he corrects, that crooked smile appearing despite everything.

"Mine," I agree.

"We end Petrov's network," I announce, and everyone stops to listen. "Not just him. All of it. For Thorne, Park, and Novak."

"For family," Asher corrects quietly.

Xander raises his good arm. "Who votes we make it fucking spectacular? Like, fourth-of-July-finale spectacular?"

Every hand goes up, even Cole's measured response.

"Motion carried," Damian growls softly. "Serbian technique?"

"After Baltimore," I promise. "When we have him."

Damian nods once, satisfied despite the blood loss.

Jax's hands are checking my weapons now, fingers testing weight and balance with obsessive focus. "These throwing knives are weighted wrong for close quarters."

"They're perfectly balanced."

"For standard deployment. But warehouse combat changes the physics—" He's fully rambling now, pulling out different blades while calculating trajectories.

My burner phone buzzes. Unknown number. A photo loads: surveillance footage of me entering this building tonight. Below it: "Hello, little swan. Baltimore is waiting. - A"

thirty-two

Jax

The Gulfstream's engines hum steady as we cut through darkness toward Baltimore. Two days since Gideon spilled his guts about Petrov's location. Two days of recovery that wasn't nearly enough—Damian's shoulder still seeps blood if he moves wrong, Xander can barely grip shit with his fucked arm, and my ribs scream every time I breathe deep.

But Mira hasn't slept. I've watched her stand at windows, tracing patterns only she can see, building violence in her head like a composer writing a symphony.

Forty-three hours awake. I've been counting.

"Anyone else think walking into a known trap while half-dead is peak stupidity?" Xander shifts in his seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make him wince. "Because I'd like it on record that this is fucking idiotic."

"Optimal strategy." Damian doesn't look up from checking his weapon one-handed. "They expect us at full strength. Disappointment creates tactical advantage."

"They expect Mira alone," Cole corrects from across the aisle, his tablet showing thermal imaging of the harbor. "Team approach changes their calculations completely."

"Their calculations can fuck off, and I mean, seriously, who plans for thirteen years and doesn't—" The words tumble out in my usual cascade before I catch myself, fingers already drumming against my thigh. "Sorry. Nervous energy. Can't stop moving when we're this close to—"

"Stop apologizing." Mira's voice cuts through my rambling. She hasn't looked away from the window, but I can see her reflection watching me. "Your chaos is useful."

Heat crawls up my neck. Even now, heading into her personal nightmare, she sees through my fidgeting to something valuable underneath.

Asher cleans his rifle scope with mechanical precision, favoring his ribs without acknowledging the pain. "Prague team confirms eight operators in position. Katya says they've been there six hours already."

"Eight operators who don't ask questions," Remy adds from where he's organizing medical supplies. "Nightfall Syndicate's European division doesn't fuck around."

The plane banks slightly, beginning descent. Through the windows, Baltimore spreads below like a cancer—industrial decay and broken promises wrapped in fog.

"Container maze confirmed at harbor location." Cole's voice stays professionally neutral, but I catch the tension underneath. "Thermal imaging shows twenty-four guards. Plus Petrov."

Twenty-four. Against our broken team and eight Prague ghosts.

"There's cargo." Mira's words are ice. "Active shipments."