I handle each piece gently, wiping away grime, checking for wear.
The hymn changes to one of my favorites,In Christ Alone, and I sing along.The melody steadies me, keeps my breathing even while the storm finishes its tantrum outside the window.
When Mercy is whole again, I set her on the nightstand and walk the thin strip of carpet between the beds, whispering scripture.
Cast all your anxiety onto Him because He cares for you.
Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, present your requests to God.
The words feel like the only things keeping me upright.They're the thread between who I am in Christ… and who I have to be to stay alive in this lie.
If we make it back to New Orleans, we step right back under Marquez's magnifying glass.Every word we say will be dissected.Every breath judged.And somewhere in that maze, I have to find a way to reach Jake and let Silas know I'm okay.
I sit on the bed, lace my fingers together, and pray aloud.
"Father… please.Don't let me lose myself.Give me wisdom sharper than the lies around me.Keep my spirit anchored even when my mouth can't be.Guard my heart from confusion… especially where Jagger is concerned.Lord, be the boundary between us when I can't trust myself to be."
I kick off my boots and lie back, staring at the stained ceiling, waiting for the peace that surpasses all understanding.
I close my eyes and drift off, holding to the promise that when I am weakest, His strength is already at work.
Jagger
I'm lying on top of the covers, fully dressed, boots still on.FN resting like lead on my chest.The room stinks of thirty years of smoke and sweat, but I've slept in worse.Or I would sleep, if I could.
The greasy-haired clerk hadn't asked questions when I came back out into the storm and told him I needed another room.The extra twenty I slipped him probably helped with that.So now I'm one door down from Adena, thinking about whether I really could do this job without lying.Every.Single.Day.
I check my watch—2:47.
The rain's been steady for hours, turning the parking lot into a patchwork of puddles that reflect the flickering neon of the motel sign.I watch the water stream down the window, my mind refusing to settle.A car pulls in.A door slams.
I'm on my feet before I've fully processed it.The curtain's already cracked—old habit—and I ease it open another inch.
A figure stands outside Adena's door.Male, average height, hood pulled low.
My heart hammers a jagged rhythm against my ribs.It’s them.The crew from the highway.They didn't wait for morning.They’re here to finish what they started, and they’re going for the softest target first.They’re going forher.
I'm out my door before the thought's finished forming, gun already in my hand.Rain hits me like a wall, soaking through my shirt in seconds.
He's still at Adena's door, hand on the knob now, twisting it.
Not on my watch.The undercover lie is gone, replaced by a cold, vibrating instinct.If he gets that door open, Adena’s a memory.I don’t see a man; I see a threat that needs to be neutralized before it can breathe.I’m not law enforcement anymore—I’m a blunt instrument.
I don't announce myself, just grab him by the back of his hood and slam him face-first into the door.He goes down hard, crying out, and I'm on him before he can recover.Knee in his spine, gun pressed to the base of his skull.
"Don't move."My voice doesn't sound like mine."Don't even breathe."
"Please—I didn't?—"
I grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back.Rain streams into his open mouth."Who sent you?"
"Nobody sent me!I'm just?—"
I crack his face against the concrete—not hard enough to break anything, just hard enough to make the point.Blood mixes with rainwater, spreading pink across the walkway.
"Try again."
"I don't know what you want!"His voice is high, panicked.Good.Fear keeps people honest."I'm looking for someone?—"
