Page 5 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Still nothing. I lean back, frustrated. He's a ghost online, which either means he's very good at his job or—

Wait. The team. They were together. Military bearing.

Private security teams Los Angeles

I scroll through companies. Blackwater affiliates. Celebrity bodyguards. Then—Centurion Protection Group. "Elite Protection Services for Discerning Clients."

I click through to their team page. Corporate headshots arranged in a grid. I scan the names: Kade Mercer (CEO), Cole Tanaka, Asher Cross, Remy Vance, and...

Jax Ryder.

There he is. The face that's been burning behind my eyelids. Professional headshot, but I can still see that reckless energy barely contained by the corporate setting.

Transportation specialist. Former military—no, wait. No military record. Just private security training and... I click deeper into his bio.

"Jax brings unique expertise in high-speed operations and tactical driving, with background in professional racing before transitioning to security."

Racing. Of course. That barely-contained energy, the way he moved like he was always about to explode into motion.

He has access to secure buildings. Private events. The kind of places Alexei's people frequent.

That's what I tell myself as I dig deeper. Social media shows almost nothing—a few team photos, professional posts about security. But the racing forums from thirteen years ago tell a different story.

"Ryder and Malone tearing up the track again. Lynch Academy's golden boys."

"Kid's got natural talent. Both of them could go pro if they keep their heads."

"Lynch Racing Academy produces another pair of champions. Gideon must be proud."

Lynch Racing Academy. Gideon Lynch. My fingers pause on the keyboard.

I pull up Alexei's files on another monitor. Racing venues circled in red. Distribution points. And there—Gideon Lynch, running tomorrow night's races. Former trainer, current promoter of underground racing.

Jax trained under Gideon.

The connection forms in my mind. Alexei uses Lynch's races to move product. Jax trained at Lynch's academy. Former students might attend their mentor's events, especially ones with—

I find the article dated thirteen years ago:"Lynch Academy Tragedy: One Student Dead, One Critical."

Tommy Malone, seventeen. Died attempting a complex jump sequence during training. Fellow student Jax Ryder injured in the same session, trying to rescue Tommy. Both were star pupils of renowned trainer Gideon Lynch.

The funeral footage is someone's shaky phone video. Jax as pallbearer, but he can barely stand. A man, likely his father—shorter, graying, same strong jaw—literally holding him upright. When they lower the coffin, Jax's knees buckle. Even through terrible phone audio, I can hear him: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Tommy, I'm so fucking sorry."

Survivor's guilt. Trauma response. Never properly processed.

I watch the video again.

That can be used. Manipulated. Get under his skin through his guilt.

But I'm not thinking about manipulation as I replay the video. I'm thinking about how his hands shook on that coffin the same way they shook holding napkins towards my chest. How that broken seventeen-year-old became the man who crashed into me with desperate honesty.

I keep searching. Find a business article from six months ago: "Winchester Foundation Partners with Centurion Protection Group for Comprehensive Security Services."

The Winchester Foundation. Major philanthropic organization, the kind that hosts galas and art auctions. The article includes a photo of the signing ceremony—Kade Mercershaking hands with Mrs. Winchester while the team stands behind him. Jax is on the left, looking uncomfortable in the formal setting.

They handle Winchester's security. High-profile client. Regular schedule.

My feet shift under the desk—heels together, toes apart, then sliding wider. A pattern my body knows but my mind isn't thinking about. I force them still.